Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Man cont.

The shifting winds swirled the smoke and a small puff of ash into his face. With a twitch he came out of his dream of peace and home. He knew that he must find the strength to lay his wife to rest. He knew where he would place her, it would be under the shade of their Cyprus tree. She loved that tree so much. It provided wonderful shade when the burning sun was high and she loved to sit under it's outspread fingers. He found some water in an unbroken jar and with his head wrap he very tenderly wiped the grim from her face. The water ran down her cheeks and streaked the ash and smudge. In a moment her face was clean and he ran his fingers through her ebony hair. At that moment the pain of his broken heart took him to her side. Lying under the stars in the cool of the evening he would get lost in the smell of her hair and the olive oil that smoothed her hands each day as the bread was made.

He placed her body under the tree and set about gathering the stones to give her protection. He made his way from her grave to the ruins of his home, then placing one of the stones on his shoulder carrying it to her resting place. As he made his way back and forth from the house to the grave anger began growing inside of him. Soon with each stone he was vowing to kill the butchers. As he placed the last stone he collapsed in the dirt next to her side. Again the tears began to stream down his cheeks. But this time, now, as every tear ran down he vowed to kill those who took away from him the most precious gift he ever had.

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