Sunday, 14 June 2009
It was the same day, just some hours later.
It was dark again, and just some steps further from your view,
there were still some souls willing to ignore the noises above,
coming from the sky torn into pieces. Or so they wrote wisely
in the old book we could all read later.
Deep down the hill, there was a man walking under the rain. It was one of those humid and fetid displays of water sprayed upon the dirty land. Stained by the vices of lie, by the wine of remorse. Yet, to some nothing had changed. The man in rags proceeded his hard path to the top of the next montain to the broken bones had melted with the first traces of the Holy Grail. The sun had been buried forever on that old symbolic wood to where the nails of doom had been glued the pages of history to the same authors, the same characters and different visions.
But on this very uphill road, from where the smoke of the burning ashes of human depictable nature had been blown, another man was enduring the limits of physical pain. If there was a soul inside this languid flesh, then it might well be about to leave. The water had entered the pores of the cross, swallowing the evil spirits of the men that had concieved such a creation.
The weight was heavier, the man was hollower and there was no eye from a distant god gazing through the clouds. The torment was greater when the nails were inserted carelessly between his tendons, the blood around the holes was already a scar, a nasty and cruel smile closing on the metallic needles. The wood on his back had been erected and now was one with his spine. Soon his whole flesh would break and he would be another cloth devoided of truth in the Eastern lands of quenched sin
This would not be written on any book that people would refer to in big meetings, infesting buildings with gorgeous ornaments over sacred stones. His sufferings were not to be drowned in seas of human greed like the ones that were scattered from the tears of blood of the sacrificed hero. The blood would stay forever, deep inside the rock under the cross, a fossile of neglected fame, laying besides the feet of defeated glory.
And yet, on that very same place, just hours later, another man had been crying out loud to the Heavens. The mistery was there for everybody to be seen, but he was the only scent of humanity left in the area. Silence, ravens and a gluttonous moon would suffy to embrace the covers of the book you will never read.
Those letters, chapters and words could have changed the lives of many. If only someone had written the book that never was. The words were there, the truths designed by the tongue of peace, fighting to be spelled by stuttering hands, the odes to secret paths contoured by the lips of the owner of language. The real names would have been resting over the lines on the pages, in symmetry with the laws portrayed. No man would be able to manipulate, corrupt or alter them, such was their strength and unity.
But there was no page, no book, no writer. They had all left. And yet, one had a feeling that even Death would forget about this man, laying tortured on the crossroad of wood, the broken and twisted tree arm saluting to the wind but no breeze coming from North or South. The desert sound, the vultures satiated and engulfed by their previous feasts, the worms all driven out on an underground procession towards the lands of fools.
The last sigh was deaf, the last glance was mute.
Posted by Bohemian at 19:30