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Image courtesy of the author; My Father.

The War

I had fastened the ram with a rope — tightly around the leather strap of his bell (tsambali) and led him through the cobbled paths of my village straight to our front door.

Along the way he’d given me some trouble, he threw his head back resisting the pull of my lilliputian arms, his bell ringing in an eratic falsetto off of the white washed pristineness of the homes that littered the way.




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R Tsambounieri Talarantas

R Tsambounieri Talarantas

In my spare time, I’ll be found at my favorite writing spot— where death surely cannot miss me. I’ve been censored... I do not tell—all.

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