The pain wracked through his empty belly but he felt it most in his soul.
The stones clawed at his feet and the dust ground itself into the cuts the miles of walking had caused. Each grain felt as if a sword had wounded him, as if a nail had pierced him, a thorn dug deep or strip of leather had cut into his skin.
He stopped and sat on a boulder at the side of the road, maybe this was all a mistake, this final lonely journey down this dusty road.
Maybe he should just turn right back around and head back to that foreign land, back to those pigs, back to what he had become. His head fell into his hands, there were no more tears of either pain or self-pity, the only thing left was the dryness of despair and death.
He thought he could hear the tear of the clothes and the weeping that would have once greeted the news of his own death. His thirst and hunger was playing tricks on him, for he was sure he could hear his name also, in an oh so familiar voice.
He looked up; and fell upon his knees, suddenly the tears did flow, as rushing towards him came not anger, not judgement, nor even disappointment, but un-bounding love.
There in that pool of tears and love each and every pain left him. Each grain of dust which had bitten deeply into his torn feet now reminded him not of the misery of the life he had left behind, but of the joy of the new one that was freely being offered.
Beauty from Chaos 