By George Rosas

The men watch the horizon of the plains of nothingness to the northeast and trample through the dry clots of dirt that crumble beneath their cracked feet as if hiding fragile fossils in the deep that witness the birth and the death of day.

The men walk with the protruding peaks of a massif puncturing the hale sky like the iron strong pyramid heads of the hoisted pila of an expert legion. The frozen twilight beats its owl wings against the quondam slaves, and they trudge on flat pasture lands and reach a clear basin.

They dip their sorrows in the algid water and bathe their salted bodies with their right hand and with their left hand and drink the waters from the living river and after, they hike through the red that glows like lapilli pumice and find a brief respite under the shadow of an Aleppo pine that grew from the fiamme when no one looked, and they shy from the bee orchids that grow wild with abandonment in the derelicts of a green ziggurat. They cross a stone bridge to the past where greenfinches flutter through an ocean of verdant leaves of the buttercup oxalis.

The men watch this world as a phantom mirage, they observe their wrists, no longer shackled. Their dark and rich skin does not bleed anymore. Their hearts beat and love anew. They turn their hard necks towards the paean of the seaway of eternity. The free have become brothers and the colony of heart-shaped leaflets house all that is right and noble and pure and the sunlight beams through the back of the hearts and welcomes the siblings to a land that lies above the clouds and beyond an eternal sun.

George Rosas is a native of the Republic of Panama. He is shy and somewhat stubborn. His publishing credits include stories released in the US and in the UK in the following magazines: The Fiction Pool, Aphelion Magazine, Dark Dossier, etc.

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