Isn’t paradise a bombard of comical tragedies?

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Lumepa Hald

Speaking of tourism, why not build us a large canoe and wade it across the sea for the irony of rubbish collected by the plastic filled ocean, saved inside the roaming sharks and the whales?

Some day the whale would occupy a beach on the south again, and we would have the recycled plastic and beer bottles spat out from his belly on his death sand. 

A fantastic memoir of our generation, we, the learned ones of modern education; why not stamp this as an icon for a futuristic view of Samoans versus the grieving environment?

I am recalling in this rag the faintness of coral growing back from the tsunami wave. 

If you knew of the coral beforehand, you would understand in no time what a funeral underwater means. The coral there is deeply grieving for some relief on the soapy things they are eating up. Sun tan lotion to begin with and the story never ends.  

But like the children on the streets, the voiceless coral are always the darkest colors if we paint out the meaning of life. Look at the prisoner’s fate for a while. It is a fantastic comedy. The worst criminals escape over and over, while there is often amiss the dutiful guards. 

They who have the honor of our trust, and whose pledge to serve our country with dignity, are painted with a red coat of shame and perhaps a pay check of a slave and the quick wits of a criminal himself. Who dares question such a mysterious tragedy? 

Oh most definitely not the child on the street, the coral in the reef or the mothers fainting in the sun as they fan themselves to brave face the lack of papaya and vegetables from the cyclone aftermath. 

As I write I pause with a sudden half giggle because I also fear the developed fetuses of more criminals to come. 

For even the nurturing sun of paradise cannot calm the winds of despair we encounter alone on the tarried roads of modernity. 

The canoe I wish for is long gone and the breeze of the seashore still seeks out the welcoming arms of the open fales. Sadly, they too are neglected and like our moral values, we too are falling apart.  

But the trickiest sunny emotion of all is when the sun of Sunday falls. When the white clothing covers the churches and the smoke from the umu fills the air with a sense of family and worship. How the innocence of children and the faith of believers hold up the posts of a luxury white building made from the sweat of the lowly. 

Yet, when the lowly on their prayerful knees suffer in silence, their vain prayers along with their sweat are carried to the sea. 

And the roaming whales and sharks await the purity of salt in them, to drink up the meaning of life in paradise, and to never question the divinity of suffering from within.  

Isn’t paradise a bombard of comical tragedies?

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