Monday, 13 April 1998
They have come. They came in quiet groups, some alone, others with their children. Sitting here on the hard ground, numb from my night in the cold, numb from all the months of turmoil and pain, i thought at first that they had tied me here to spend the night in contemplation of my sin - but now i see their eyes i know that it was not so. They, it seems, are the ones about to die. There is pain in every face. Even the children seem to understand. I feel a cold tear form and role down my face as my gaze meets the eyes of the ones i have hurt. I look for hatred and maybe it is there but i see only pain.
The first man stoops and picks up a stone. I watch, it seems so slow, so very slow and otherworldly and i feel the weight of the rock in his hand. I feel the effort as he throws back his arm in preparation. He throws and turns his head for it is clear that he does not want to behold the result of his throw. The rock passes by my ear and clatters to the rocks behind but though i hear every sound i heed it not for now i watch as all stoop and reach for their stone. I see their lips move. A silent litany that i join.
The rocks are flying now and i feel the first stab of pain though it seems more like a caress. I watch in fascination as they let fly their blessings, none it seems will look where their stone might land though i reach out to them to tell them not to worry, that i feel only relief.
My mind is slipping away now for i have taken many wounds and death is near. I watch he who i have most harmed stoop and carefully choose a stone. His eyes are full of tears but resolute as he takes careful aim and hurls. And now i can rest.
Posted by The Peak Oil Poet at 21:51