Cast in Clay

They were peasants, trapped in clay. Mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, forever encased. Unable to move, unable to speak, cursed to be statues and moved at the whim of those not cast in clay.

They cannot speak.
They cannot cry.
But they can see.

Though their lips are sealed behind the white clay, their eyes remain open. Forever moving, forever pleading, forever ignored.

Then arrives the passerby, who gazes upon those trapped in clay. Their eyes meet, and the passerby moves on, neglecting the glistening, melancholy eyes.

Backs forever buckled underneath their tremendous weight, knees forever collapsed under the burden of tyranny.

The peasants are frozen in their era of destitution and oppression. The old man continues to carry the massive bag of rice. The little child will never stop pulling the substantial wagon. The tiny girl will always kneel and clean the shoes of her tyrant, while he gazes down upon her with a lecherous smile. The disobedient peasant will never feel anything but the stinging lash of the whip upon his back. The woman will always stretch her arms towards the overseer stealing her child, never able to grasp the babe, always crying for its salvation.

Trapped in clay, unmoving, but always begging.

Trapped until the clay slowly begins to deteriorate. Gradually, as the years pass, cracks and rivulets sift throughout the clay. The elderly man loses his jaw, the child her fingers, the woman her outstretched hand. Shards of clay lay about them, and they can only wait for it to crumble and free them from their misery.

The clay remains untouched, left to break and diminish. Until, at last, the clay crumbles, crumbles, crumbles, and there is nothing left of them but white, chalky dust.