There was an old bundle of paper with random
sketches and lines drawn here and there, that I had
never attempted to open and see
and now they lay open in front of me, scattered
by an inevitable wind.
They refused to bear my deliberate blindness.
I held them in fear, picked one and read the lines
drawn, they crossed each other at the ends and
formed a vague hastily drawn enclosed figure.
The second sheet repeated the same figure with an
addition of some more mess of lines fitting inside
the enclosure.
The same pattern continued, the
more the mess of lines inscribed within thickened
the more thin the boundaries appeared.
The forces of perception and the pull of the
unperceived held tight.
Shutting my eyes from the
web of lines only opened a huge blank page .
“Good Lord!”, I cried for mercy.
My voice was being muted, my eyes growing dim
under the light of the massive blankness.
Nothing made sense any longer, no truth remained,
all sin and all goodness seemed perfectly within
reach.
The walls were crumbling, some unknown touch had
surfaced their fear, which had been cemented upon,
and all that eventually remained of them was their
unburnt ashes.
In that unfamiliar earth - my very own land - that I
had laboured to life, I knew not, remember not what
had once been true.
