Darkness and footsteps…intertwined and intermingled…hurried, urgent and loud…no, very loud…interspersed with screams..
The crowd was coming near. You could tell that by the sounds of the footsteps getting louder. His face was dripping with sweat. He wiped it with his hands and realized that they were drenched in sweat too. He had been crouching under the bush for an hour now. His thoughts often ran to his little daughter who never slept without him. Suddenly there was a rustle and the footsteps discovered him. He heard the question, "What is your name ?" being hurled at him. The sight of pure, fresh blood on the sword paralysed him. He was frozen.
He felt the cold sword snip at the chord of his pajamas and then he remembered his prayer…just in time, he thought. But he had forgotten that there is no greater force than that of human hatred. It devours and pillages everything that comes in its way. There is no place for laughter that tinkles or for faces that radiate like sunshine. There is place only for footsteps which mingle blood with dust and then march ahead into the darkness…
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