His death made no impression at all. Ask anyone: Who he was , how did live when he was live, and how did he die? Did his strength slowly fade, did his heart slowly give out or did the very marrow of his bones melt under the weight of his burdens? Who knows? Perhaps he just died from not eating ;starvation, its called. He was a human being; he lived unknown, in silence, and in silence he died. He passed through your world like a shadow. When was born no one took a drink of wine; there was no sound of glasses clinking. When he was confirmed, he made no speech of celebration. He existed like a grain of sand at the rim of a vast ocean, amid millions of other grains of sand exactly similar, and when the wind at last lifted him up and carried him across to the other shore of that ocean, no one noticed, no one at all. During his lifetime his feet left no mark upon the dust of the streets; after his death the wind blew away the board that marked his grave. The wife of the gravedigger came upon that bit of wood, lying far off from the grave, and she picked it up and used it to make a fire under the potatoes she was cooking; it was just right. Three days after his death no one knew where he lay, neither the gravedigger nor anyone else. If he had had a headstone, someone, even after a hundred years, might have come across it, might still have been able to read the carved words, and his name, he might not have vanished from this earth. His sufferings were unspeakable. Here, look upon a man who was more tormented than job! He never complained,and he was always lonely. He never had a friend, never was sent to school, never was given a new clothes, never knew one moment of freedom. He was silent even when his uncle, raving drunk, dragged him out of the house by the hair and flung him into the cold night, frozen night. He picked himself up quietly and wandered into the distance where his eyes led him. During his wanderings he was always silent; during his agony of hunger he begged only with his eyes. And at last, on a damp warm night, he drifted to a great city, drifted there like a leaf before the wind, and on his very first night, scarcely seen, scarcely heard, he was thrown into a cold stole. He remained silent, he never protested, he never asked, Why, what for? The doors of the cold stole were opened again, and, free, he looked for the most lowly filthy work, and still he remained silent. More terrible even than the work itself was the search for work. Tormented and ground down by pain, by the cramp of pain in an empty stomach, he never protested, he always kept silent. His likeness remained in no ones memory, in no ones heart. A shadow! Nothing! Finished! In loneliness he lived, and in loneliness he died. Had it not been for the infernal human racket someone or other might have heard the sound of his bones cracking under the weight of his burdens; someone might have glanced around and seen that he was also a human being, that he had two frightened eyes and a silent trembling mouth; someone might have noticed how, even when he bore no actual load upon his back, he still walked with his head bowed down to earth, as though while living he was already searching for his grave. In silence he was born, in silence he lived, in silence he died ......
Posted on: Thu, 07 Nov 2013 12:20:42 +0000
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