Trampled leaves lay a path into the city. Bleeding palms and torn garments are what is left of a triumphant entry, and now the dusk descends. The city is full of shadows and night voices. I’ve never been here in the dark before. I jump at what I think is a soldier or vagabond around the corner, but it is only an old rooster scratching the stony ground. I’m not sure I want to follow this man, but I know I’ll get lost here if I don’t. The streets are so narrow I hardly know if I’m staggering upwards or stumbling down. I smell bread baking, women roasting lamb, roses growing in thorny gardens. I do not yet understand what this journey means.
Left under a black sky all I see is my own heart. I am uncomfortable with silence, for it brings out aortic wars I have long suppressed. My feet are weary of the blind struggle, but I know I must go on. What I fear most is the journey into myself.