A cry of pain escaped from her thirsty bleeding skeleton and she turned around trying to receive the suffering jolts on some other parts of her weak stem. The fierce aching flooded her mind and enrobed her soul to vibrating her sweating head in all the directions. She could aim and wonder to trade the rest of her moments with a glop of death, but death was not around. She could wish and hope to spare the little child crawling at her scratched feet and sink in a furnace of ferocious burning heat, but the child is still holding tight on the edges of her torn dress in an attempt to stand on his little innocent feet. She could talk to the brain of this deserted earth and ask for a tiny moment of mercy, but the place was wearing a strange silence and empty of any breath or smell of any living creature. The hope to find a way out of this naked desert of life is all what she could taste around her dry thirsty tongue. Words of madness paraded in her ears and the whisper of a lament filled her lungs. Is it an event of sacrifice and blood has to flow to clean her forgotten destiny? Is it a dream that will end at the edge of a happy awakening moment and happiness is going to overcome the fields of reality? Why it is so, that only agony and pain can comfort the circle of days and set free the words of anguish out of her chocking throat? Are those tiny footsteps that have been following her in her way to the nowhere, the signs of a cry of birth or they are just a flow of a stream rushing toward its ocean of death? The woman has to endure the atrocities of rejections and the child has to drink torture and feed from the roots of revenge.
The face pale in panic, the eyes shredding the traces of layered dried tears, and the body in torture struggling to make a move and reach up toward the beyond of what the eyes could barely reach. Nothing was above and nothing was around that could bring a beam of hope; nothing that she could even forget and nothing that she could still remember. No wonder that the brain of this existence is absent from her deserted world, and she has been left on her own for an eternity. The child kept on trying to stretch the legs and stand on his feet, but if he only could miss a grasp and bulk down to ease her weight and set her free. Bitter desperation and a tasteless feeling of hopelessness invaded her heavy bosom, filling her nostrils with the hot and dusty wind of doom. She felt her head falling into a heavy weight of illusions and vague dreams colored the dryness of the stony path, which was rolling down its tongue ready to swallow each step of her path. She felt a strange pulse of warmth covering her lower legs and she felt the need to make a step. She smoothly pulled her left leg in a slow motion driving it away from her tormented past and in the same way did with her right leg in a gesture of an escape. A cloud of dust evaporated behind her like if the dust was trying to keep her from moving. The little child, who was holding up on his safety embryo and failing to anticipate his mother’s move, was not able to hold on his twigs and fell all the way down crunching with his teeth deep into the dust. The child body bounced once and rolled twice in the middle of sharp layers of dry mud that made his body bleed in several parts. He was lying down with his right arm imprisoned under his bleeding chest, his belly hugging a parcel of dry mud, and his left arm was fully extended in an attempt to reach up the mother of his lost destiny. But at his deep deception, there was no sign of her that he could see and no sound of her that he could distinguish. She left him there and abandoned him in the behind leaving him thriving in seclusion without any glimpse of her shadow. He was lying there in the middle of the nowhere and the Angels of his spirit came down to flock in a dance. While the Angels were waltzing around and in the middle of his dreadful panic, he could hear the bells of his requiem. He reached his moment of truth and the brain of this earth clogged from counting the days of his story. The doors of the past have just closed his final moments of existence and the gate of wrath opened wide marking the moment of a new birth. In his deep innocent silence, his eyes were changing their colors and his heart was readjusting the rhythm of its beats.
In a slow motion, the child little flimsy body tried to turn around itself seeking for a more comfortable position. He awakened each part of his corpse one at the time pulling them toward him in an attempt to find the position he used to have in his mother’s inside. That was the only place were he did enjoy warmth of safety and a secure shelter. His mother is now gone and forever her milk will fade to dryness within his childish teeth. He rested there for what seemed to be an eternity not willing to abandon the place that still hold the memory of the escaping mother. His bare remains layered the covers of the dark days, and he was no more able to discern any familiar sound striking the drops of his silent tears. She was at large away from his empty space and her breath of life is still echoing in the vanishing beat of his dreams. The little innocence is now alone and every living creature in the vicinity joined his felt senses to compile a world of threat around him. The song of fate rhymed in his ears in a melody of weeping, and a burst of hums gulped the finest from agony notes. The end has reached its beginning and the start is about to shiver and quiver for that first step toward what will never say it all.
The child tried to send a sound of a sob in the direction of his lost world, but the hills and the mountains of purity stood up all around to narrow the gap in his sight. In an attempt to ease his panic, he dug into the ground with his soft nails, then took for a bite of fresh earth and led it to his crying wide open mouth. On his hesitating weak elbows he deepened the hope, and on his bleeding scarred knees he built up the first stones of a survival legend. That is how the tragedy had to sew its invisible web, blinding each blink of an eye in his way toward what he will never find. He will spend his days trying to remember the music of his mother’s footsteps and take them for a target in an effort to catch up on his lost destiny. He could crawl on his bare knees and try to build up a story with which he would play and remain forever in his innocent world. He could try again and pull his little lean body, reassemble it to rest on his buttocks, and extend his left hand around to sweep the tears that are blinding his eyes. He is a child, and what could a child come up with when his little brain is still in his waiting room? The little whispering of his moaning echoed in the eastern cliffs and resonated in the western hills; but nothing came to ease his fatal panic and no sign of hope showed up to ease the pain of his fear. The brain of this earth was in an ecstasy of a mockery and the little child is now lost in the harsh wilderness, where his deserter mother has deserted him. He will grow up feeding from his sorrow and he will walk in the light of his lost moon. He will stumble on the unknown and learn to be alone. He will throw his legs wherever they could take him and attain the limits of all the beginnings. He will fight the lizards of his wrath and feed his days from the heat of the revenge. He will start at the bottom of that survival hill and go on climbing all the heights that will ask for a challenge. He will hold up on each dry stem that his bleeding hands will grasp and pull up his legs to add another step in his way searching for his lost fate. He will close his little tired eyes and take a deep breath to fill his lungs with the breeze of life. He will caress the burning soil that he will be sweeping with his skinny thighs and pay the price of an unknown deep struggle. He will struggle and fight hard to grow wise and fill his belly with wisdom. He will look higher than what his eyes can ever percept and fill his emotions with the rain of his fertile dreams. The olive tree on the top of that hill will remain his sole target and he will never rest until his back will collapse against its sacred trunk. Each time he will think of his mother, he will find her in each thing he will fall in love with, and so will be it.
The sound of anxiety roared its thunder of wrath and the snakes of all the anticipations have now crawled deep in their labyrinths. Over the hill of all the solitudes and on the top of the summit of all what he lived for, the little child stood up and his eyes ceased dropping their warm tears. A new era has begun and the true beginning of what he was born for has just reached its countdown. He is now standing there with his back against the olive tree of his childhood. A breeze of a new epoch refreshed his chest and he closed his eyes focusing on what could be his next destination. His deep thoughts were drinking from the tree wise spirit and his wrath was feeding from the perfume of its singing green leaves. The tree of wisdom had grown up wild and her branches pointed to all the directions. Her shade of emotions covered him with a feeling of a true mother. The olive tree is now hugging him with its majestic presence and a bond of life was established between the child and his true mother. The connection links to the superior layers that rest far above all the revelations that will lead him to that hidden world, where everything is so settled down. He was experiencing a trip away from the fear of this loneliness, a fantasy beyond the relaxation sphere, and an escape far away from her majesty the queen of reality. A butterfly of hope swung up and down around his nose inviting him to fly and move afar. He opened his eyes to realize that he was surrounded by a field of all the wonderful colors that nature could conceive. Wheat green stems were exceeding the heights with red poppies in the middle of a green carpet of life kneeled down in front of his determination and strong will. He stood up and took for a walk of life all the way down by the river of his strong sorrow that floods the banks of his traveling moments. Slow and hesitating were his steps carrying his dirge in the middle of the thrown stones and branches of a new existence. Far above behind him, the olive tree shook its twigs for a saying and whispered a wish:
Flex your legs my cherished son and let them find their way in this empty space, for they are rusty and itching for a move. Leave your grief at the bottom of my trunk and let your senses reach up the ultimate patience, for that is what in the truth you were born for. Listen up to the stories that the winds of destiny will blow on your ears and let it go until you reach the corridors of safety. Let it fall down to the lower abyss of emotions and let it go ever higher to fly above your perception and lead you to the world of the gone away. Bring your pieces together and let your heartbeats drink from the memories of your childhood. Let your eyes drill into the sky of what is forever gone and reach up the stars of those who took your destiny to their graves. You can do it my son and so will be your duty. A destiny of yours, born to fight until the fight will start again. You came to struggle until the struggle will harsh up to exceed what your mind never will expect. You will grow in the middle of loneliness my son and you will struggle again and again. That is in the truth what your nature is made of, and that is what you will always be to mean. The mother is gone to forever and among the wilderness, you will stay alone like never ever. Single in your solitude my lovely social butterfly, alone in your own paradise now; your words will be salty and your breath will suffer a throttle. Tell about the feathers of your dreams and the colors of your horizons. Talk about those faces that walk around your bed and the voices that keep on resonating in your ears. Drink from your soreness and run across the fog of your lost destiny. Wash your face with the rain of your freedom and melt your revenge with the tears of your determination. Run and cover the distances, climb the mountains and jump over the ditches and let the laughter fill your journey. Do not worry about the scars of the time and do not listen to the sirens of your anger. Let it go and turn yourself loose until you reach those of yours who left without a trace; those who went far beyond the end of all the beginnings. There my dear son where you do belong, in that land of the brightest light. There, where the song forever will wrap the words of your wounded blues.
There are moments when you will fall down and smash your face on your mother earth and smell its warm breath. There will be days when you will hug the stone of your remembrance and kneel down at its bottom. You will be sweeping your face against its sharp corners and bleed out of your thin front. Do not look behind, and never look back at your shadow. Do not open your eyes and never drop a tiny beam of tears. You are in the land of no existence and your fate was thrown in the flow of what will never be recovered. A deep sleep kept you far in the behind and your people have left the place. You woke up one early morning and all what you could hear was only silence. You rolled your eyes from side to side but only the cover of your solitude was wrapping your fear. Where did your people go and why you are still in the alone? Where did your belong go and why you had to be left behind? Did they leave or were they cursed by the wrath of your destiny? If you cannot be with your own be, why you have to be in this be? Why the sufferings and why the misery? Blow a breath of lamentation in the flute of this moment and let your bosom feel the notes. Let the ecstasy stream in your veins and reach up the far end of your torments. Let the sound of the days cry for you and sweep the tears of your falling face. I know what your feelings are about and I do venerate that look of your green eyes. It is a turn of life and your legs are carrying the weights. It is the end of an era and the clouds are coming for a visit. Drink from that cup of wrath that you save and go out of your refuge. Walk and walk so far away at the extent of the distances, until you arrive beyond the end of the never. Heave your bare feet and let your toes dive into the dry dust of your fate. Do not you ever worry and do not you ever look around. You will reach places that will not welcome you and you will gulp and swallow to your deep bottom the smoke of your twinge. You will reach heights and peaks of sorrow and you will hate the day when your mother went behind the never come back. You will roam and cover the distances; you will run in the sun and count the clouds. You will mark your path on the snow of ignorance of those of yours, and you will endure the soreness until you hate the day when it all began. The day your hands will join around your suffocating neck and your eyes will turn to the white; that day you will see the tunnel and have a glimpse of the way that will lay down to lead to where in the truth you meant to belong. An empty ecstasy and a sterile existence will take you from the hand and will lead you through the darkness and throw you in the catacombs. When your bones smash and mash down; when your head gets drunk of all the stress of the long way and your knees join your elbows seeking for a sleep. Then and only then, the smile of the sun will penetrate your cold bones and your ears will hear the birds of your childhood.