From Before the Day of My Birth

Is it difficult to reach the place you want to go to? How long does it take to achieve your indefinite aim? How far is it to the abode of the blessed? Is there someone who will help you in times of troubles?

They told me I’m a traveller from before the day of my birth. I have to move on till I grow old, till I stumble and fall, worn out and exhausted – up and down, back and forth, over mountains and seas, across deserts and meadows. You cannot stand still, they say. And I believe them.

There is no sky. Steppes and hills, and forests. The town is small. The streets are narrow. They all are walled by wooden buildings with thatched roofs. Dusk and moonlight, and silence. No one there.

The storm is rolling in from the north. The wind is tender. It rubs branches together over sinister surfaces of the river flowing silently somewhere in the dark. The fields lay abandoned, the crops are unharvested. Apricot, cherry and apple trees. Rotten fruits on the ground.

The land of the dead – and I don’t know why I’m here.

Sicut lilium inter spinas