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Village Idiot 
The approaching storm makes the flies crazy. They engulf his head in
a buzzing shroud. The first few raindrops are already falling. An
ox
leans over the wooden fence, his eyes a reservoir of mute
objections.
The villagers are all dying in ways they will never share with each
other.
They haven't told him anything and he can only guess the provenance
of his despair. He runs down the deserted lane past the houses of
his
mother, grandmother, the artist who conceived him, to the village
square where he finds nothing and nobody. Just the big white
silence,
the margin in which I'm scribbling in the blood of forbidden
devotion.
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