stillmoves
stories from stills
My Feet was caressing the street

Black

Aiming at my conscience with the blackest of her eyes, she asks me if I believe in God. I tell her that he didn’t stop by in our village. You, I ask, not to be outdone. Me too, she says, I don’t believe. But, she adds, we have a saying. What is it, I ask. Black ant, she tells me, on a black stone at a black night. God sees it.