thrown again and again upon the worldly blade?!?
You have despised us gray for the wiping of blind red from our seeking eyes. But it is rather that the sun is better worshiped by a declare in and out of shadow.
HEED, MOTHER! Your children see more of the light than thy eyes now burnt away in heat. For the new Stone is a thing to liberate! It shall crush the Worldly Knife, that of which your pin pricks have raved and duelled upon; empty whirlings; noble but now the reap of drained limbs like most hung in the wind.
Tired ones must come to rest. Stay in our village for your days. But a caution. Tiring things must come to a rest as well. Give a tongue stay for your days also; for your children find its rasp a grating thing: an unneeded erode upon well formed backs.
Your past is honoured amongst all. It is our own future which is voted new assemble. Be still now and remain revered among us.” He crossed his arms again being even more sure of his poise ”Crackle on and be driven from the communal flame; like an irksome ember tossed from the hearth into the night!"
She looked at the Beggar. Her hand tossed toward the villagers "See. Children of the Worm squirm and return to the nigh's crack of empty! Seeking the altar of unborn, do not all men declare a new blindness sacred; and pull the cowardice festered upon their back long over their eyes, like a rag of hood now exposing the flee of backsides!”
She turned back to Exas and the villagers. "That the sun rises and opens its blink of womb, so must mouth rise and fall in the tides of blood. A destiny of preened oracle cannot be turned by the folding of ears or the rise of hands like grass before the poised lions.
Yet I have been a fool's ear amongst foolish chatter. Your hands raised are but an overdue exhale of fallen spirit. When the follow has turned away. There is no leader. You today tell me an old tale.
The she-wolve festers in wounds decay, yet the distance of the pups does not make them wolves!
YOU STILL DO NOT SEE! Denial is not REACH. Like babes in a night, you cringe of what is not there and wail against all offers for it is as simple as the will of eyes stoned in their close.
Destiny is not a moral of brand though it has its hunger. You stop no path in denying a Beggar's. You learn no language in the hollow of an old woman's torn mouth.”
She pointed at the Stone. "There, see it as such is! That is your monstrosity of indecisive. Round as a world, you would release it to flatten a world under a world. But there will spring no fresh of green freshened Man. It is the shadow of what you are and is but the Seed of recurring history. It is of all things unopened, filled in its hollow with a frozen contort of all things untouched. It is YOUR HISTORY CARVED but remains a destiny unopened. For you have now discarded everything into it. Think ye immortal!? This heart's well which you claim deny's at its throat the sands of time? Plugged it is with rock!? Man made or time made, there is still no froth of living at its womb! No bucket can pierce this crust even if your hands remain sure to the woven hope!
"ENOUGH! ENOUGH!" She stooped and picked up a stone.
"Raise yourself from the unfeeling posture of four, my children, and turn back your hammers! Lay upon this boil, crack it and a quench your living search upon the single drop of worship upward ; the condensation of fever that flares destiny above the flat history of running worms!"
The stone from her hand curved over the villagers and struck hard at the Stone; a click like a knife falling from the sky.
"OLD BITCH, CEASE I TELL YOU!" Exas picked up a stone, his eyes levelling for aim. Most of the villagers did as likewise.
She flung another arguing "Death of stone or death of mother! What is all that but a child's song!? What is silence but the rain of stone!?"
The stoned arm of Exas gathered its momentum backwards like an egg held away from the throng. More of the villagers did as likewise.
The Beggar moved to front a blockade before the She. Her leg struck his abdomen; he sprawled away gasping. “No! Shadow not the Breast from her cubs' teethings!” She threw another stone, chipping the Ball.
"SING IN THE SUCKLE OF BLOOD THEN”roared Exas, he threw plunged a rock into her chest and stooped for another. All of the villagers did as likewise.
She sank to her fours, already blood seeping from her robe, her hair as the stones gathered at her flesh; the thuds like a rhythmic drawn. She fell over, stilled, the sand lapping red below her. The stones ceased, the air hung disarmed of its menace. The villagers as likewise. Only Exas held his will steady in the curve of his palm; his chest breathless for a sign of rising or heaving; as a child does when unsure of its previous act yet determined to hold away repent by continuing the act.
She rose to her knees, her back slowly straightened and ceased 80
trembling; her eyes reached out of the blood pulp and moved about the villagers'. Out the blood spittle came her voice: "When the life given turns to devour the life giver, this is the most evil, hide the Mother scorched at a mirror. For the cycle calls to the child to hunt another child's parent, likewise a parent consumes all that is not its own child. And thus the circle remains wide to let life continuous in pass through. Childish arms, your reach does more than this injustice, though your eyes see only the horizon of my broken brow.
And I shall rob you of even this history. Motherkillers.
Remember this for your shall soon do likewise with your Stone!"
Her head titled back, causing the blood of her chin and cheeks to stream upon her long neck. Her mouth opened as her hand darted in robe.
A long knife whistled upward like a black form arrowed high, then plunged downward.
She saw it rising, its grace of while an unfold like the heart of black haw gathering thinking it of the sun. She had no thoughts of a death or a life, these were things to be cast when those times were dwelt. At the gate passage, she discards with single breath what was to be done or undone; of what is to be entered there is no new memory as yet.
The mortal taking is perhaps the only undertaking where all distractions are passed by intends of stripped away by the rush of wind. Like the hawk: heart, wing, eyes fuse in a of full intention; that intention not even of prey but rather of the single will to plummet for solitary act.
The hawk reached; rose swift to its climax; folded its wings to hold embrace the power of its being gained height; a glint of sun upon its solitary claw drawn.
As alone in gaze, as the traveller vanishes spreading eyes before the last plain, she thought only of that beauty; of a brief second of eternity kneeling before act. Her act.
The hawk descended; swift but not in the eagerness of defile, rather in the musical flow of note. For the song intended.
The rabbit did not regret for she had called forth the hawk to end righteous a burrow spent in long nights.
Perhaps it is indeed found in a strength of living that whereas young things have no Mother to greet their beginning; old things can make a verse of their own departure.
Her heart hummed in the air silent of these surroundings. Her soul stayed its rejoice, like a choral not yet needed. Her mind would not answer a body's last plea for existence.
He rocked her body, his face smeared of her slowing blood, alternating between gaze at her death eyes folding into her curve throat or an ear to breast, unable to hear the higher song. His hands, too, mixed her hair, face, blood in the gestures of a stupefied man painting in the rain, his touch both attempts at smear and cleaning as both rage and gentleness had each a grievous brush.
He did not weep. Weeping is the control of a dignified offer to a lose. He did not lament. For wail is the outburst of life beginning even at death's very instance to rage forward again.
It was sobs tore from his throat like some half dement slapped away from a piece of bread. The weepings of a child cradling a broken toy.
A thing had broken inside himself. What contains a man in heart and mind and soul remain ever walled from each had crumbled. Stone had dimished in blood.
That wall protecting a man from grasping the large black hand that curl
s in the multi tenacles of date or grasps him.
With the will to see death is not to see one's own death. The wall prevents the filling of empty footprints with the entire being of that traveller's heartache. The wall will not allow the soul's yearns at eternity to howl down upon each minor heart loss and fill them to chasms of perpetual. The mind cannot 'peek' over and turn away mad to the visions of touch and untouch as the heart gropes endless for even a single dual note of harmony in a desert of life.
The mind, soul, heart knew only whispers faint, unclear passed to each other, stone-through. Like of savour outside, yet ironic, their hope circling around around like wind in a shell plugged by the sand of its own carry.
This wall had broken in a Beggar.
Her death lay as a flowing limp of his walk. Fainter as the yaw of some great dark mouth called to him for the salt of his name.
Death in a death is of no fear, it is the irony which crumbles even the stiffest back.
He could not explain this death nor its life before it. Nor his own.
The heart, soul mind of his footprints had as if gathered and dug her grave. She died simply to die before him. As if the desert lives to swallow rain. The hawk gives the air means for its cause.
A religion of inertia held breathless at the edge into void.
She existed simply to give his existence a distance from nothing.
Now nothing laughed at his feet. And heart, mind, soul were bound to an
The Seven Days of Wander Page 79
