He was standing in an old road, rutted and ancient, that wound up a black hill towards the sky, where a great flock of black birds was gathering. The birds were like black letters against the grey of the sky. He thought that in a moment he would understand what the writing meant. The stones in the ancient road were symbols foretelling the travelers journey.
02 March 2009
Turning
"Of what does a revolt consist? Of everything and nothing, a spring slowly released, a fire suddenly breaking out, force operating at random, a passing breeze. The breeze stirs the heads that think and minds that dream, spirits that suffer, passions that smolder, wrongs crying out to be righted, and carries them away." Victor Hugo
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment