Through the clouds, above the fog, the greatest mountain to witness. Around and around, this enclosed pod, it starts to rain - it would. A few lonely tears kiss my cheeks, I’m proud, and brave, and alone.
It's not easy to wash feet in Messulumi. Water fetched fire lit kettle boiled warm water poured soap rubbed rough towel dried. Such care is needed.
Then poem is about having my feet washed in Messulumi village. Messulumi is the village in Nagaland (N E India) that my wife comes from. The painting is also my work is of Jesus washing Peter's feet at the last supper on Maundy Thursday.