It was the left foot, and that is why it was the left shoe. It had to be connected, there seemed no other way.
Mansoor was trotting down the descent, trees lined on both sides as bikes and cars drived away. The cacophony of the "kraa kraa" with the constant wheezing of the automations combined with the susurruss of the trees; the whistling, the subtle buzz, and an unrecognisable sound in the distance, of metal against metal swayed Mansoor in a dreamlike state. His shaven head tingled with the breeze and as one step followed another, he never realised when his feet began to rhyme with the rhythm of the road.
Untill he fell.
It was the left shoe's shoelace that had come undone and decided to play a little mischief of its own. As Mansoor straggled on the village road, the blue, squinky little shoelace grinned up at him.
There came out his left shoe, and there pulled out was its shoelace. Mischievous, naughty little things. Mansoor, for reasons he now cannot conceive plunged back his arm and threw the shoe with mighty strength.
A, "hah!" Followed, and there went the blue little string of a companion.
Mansoor laughed away, not a loud one, nor a softer one. Just a quite laughter with the wind. He got up.
The cacophony of the "kraa kraa" with the constant wheezing of the automations combined with the susurruss of the trees; the whistling, the subtle buzz, and an unrecognisable sound in the distance, of metal against metal swayed Mansoor in a dreamlike state. His shaven head tingled with the breeze and as one step followed another, he never realised when his feet began to rhyme with the rhythm of the road.
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YOU ARE READING
h a i m i s h
Poesie. . . haimish; moon talks, and alleyed pyols. . . . homes a collection of snippets from the times I feel most at home. prose/poetry
