Noma

The word has been spelt out.

Two syllables, just a handful of letters really,

which mean life will never be the same again.

The tremor has passed.

No shock to speak of,

as deep down we knew

that deep down

some thing had woken up.

We could almost feel it.

This word, with timid lips pronounced

a few months ago,

now has gathered its full impetus.

It doesn't mean anything, per se.

It simply is a diagnosis,

an explanation for the discomfort,

for the ache waking us up,

a description of the pain that be,

a herald of the pain to come.

As simple as it may sound,

the barbarity of its actual name

scorches the very heart out of us.

Yet it also brings a sense of conclusion,

some weird feeling that now that

the storm has broken through the overcast

serenity can finally be achieved,

independent from survival or defeat,

from absolution or culpability.

Some old words will acquire new meanings.

Others will become obsolete.

Others will need to be invented.

What is left now is the fight

against one's own body,

one's own determination,

ironically finding the cure

at the exact same place

where the sickness first grew.

Ironically finding a new direction,

a renewed impulse and a refreshed step

whilst before we so fervently wished to die.

It may even be that one word

or a word-within-a-look

uttered from someone's heart

shall give us strength beyond reckoning

or shall break us into pieces.

Such is their power, and ours.

Today, we heard the word

which spelt our rise or our fall.

Today, we are in the eye of the storm.