At The Edge
At the edge of the world, I stand, defiled by mud. In that moment, existence meant nothing to me. I stood at the threshold of life, wrapped in rage, carrying all I had gathered through my journey: the ammunition of oppression, and the dung of mankind. Before the door, I stood staring at the remnants of clotted blood. I was bidding farewell to the last thing left of me. I reached out my fingers. It still held something of her body’s warmth. And I felt nothing else. Slowly, I turned on my heels like a clown whose performance had ended on stage, returning once more to the misery of his life. I turned to face a life I no longer knew, a life that might drag me farther than this. I left the silence of that defiled room. I left the building. I crossed the outer garden, passed beneath the trellis, and stepped out of the house into a street stained with filth. The eyes of poultry met mine. From the nearby stables came the neighing of horses. I left the neighborhood, knowing that my steps would ...