A Lonely Ruin

Etched in my soul is the peace of a lonely ruin, an old chapel on the skull of a hill surrounded by pastureland and wind-swept trees. Below a lake stretches into the distance, its waves lapping the mottled shores, its waters harboring a variety of fishes, its surface mutating according to nature's whims. I lie on my bed in my urban hovel, a small window opened ajar, I smell the effluvial stink of the dirty alley, I hear the hellish hustle and bustle of the mad world outside, the world that rejected me, leaving me jobless on the verge of homelessness on the brink of famine. Like a somnambulist, I walk away like a drugged addicted old man, and limp towards my haven far away. The way is long, and torturous, and steep. I fall, get up, knees bleeding, but keep on until at last I reach the top where silence reigns. What did I expect to find here? I look down as the earth stretches before me. And wonder what must He had felt with a panorama such as this as He hang on a tree, blood dripping from a thousand wounds. There was no silence then but only jeers. Here on the skull of my haven is silence and peace and I wonder: would there have been silence and peace, had He not died so many years ago?