Hobbling over rock and dust, The Nameless winces with every weary step. His soles scorched and torn By the unaccustomed roughness underfoot The jagged teeth of a prickly piping earth.
Alone he makes his way With tiny treads towards the dying dusk. Fatigue dragging at his limbs Bowing his neck to leave eyes downcast And unfocussed; seeing naught but blurs and The swirling and swaying of the trembling past.
A city: Grand buildings stretching as one toward the sky; Great lions waking from their feast and basking In the brilliance of noonday air. The bustle of flesh coursing about their purpose The tight press of bodies all around And the chatter and the natter and the laughter and the anger.
And then the silence. The fear and the glares. The hunger And a guilty aversion of one’s eyes.
The shattering of glass The raising with fire and boot. And the stealing of Names.
And now here he trudges. With tiny treads and into naked night.
Part 1 of an ongoing series - The Stealing of Names Follow and get ready for the next instalment in a few days!