Stabat Mater

He was bruised, his lips parched, his hair matted. His eyes were drained of tears; his soul was dying.

He had been strong but the enemies were stronger.

He was staggering near the end, shaking to the core, yet he stood erect.

But his soul was crying. He was not who he used to be. He was not he who embarked on the journey. He was sullied. Layers of sanity were stripped one by one until nothing was left to hide his mind. He was naked.

No anguish was greater, no pleas cried louder.

Primula wept in miseries so deep.

*