Mathilda Parau


There is nothing but silence. She is having her breakfast in the thatched and weaved sago construction, which serves as a kitchen. A similar adjoining structure houses her personal belongings and a mat for a bed. The floor of the building is covered with smooth pebbles collected from the seashore. The smoke rising from the fire in the centre of the hut creates a haze, slowly crawling up the walls, and then slipping out of the roof like a lazy snake into the early rays of daylight. The figure, so old and frail, sits in silence. Only her mind moves in and out of pictures that engulf her vision.



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