Pool_2

Unwholesome draught:

But here... I.. I.. I feel amends....

.... The breath of fair Heaven, fresh blowing, pure and sweet, With day-spring born ........ ..... here .. leave me.. to respire."

A young man was face down, spluttering away the clinging powder of an earthen road, wearily coercing these ancient lines which, resurrected, crackeled through his desiccated lips. He willed but could move no further, his body but not his final time done nor his hair shorn short. A tempered soft hand turned him gently over and a never before heard yet almost familiar soft voice from a hazy childhood beckoned. "Come. Come young man. I know who you are." A lady draped in raven robes tended him, "Come." He gasped, "She's gone." "I know. I heard. Come, my would be Sampson, this day a solemn feast the people hold, to Yaweh." At this he yielded, confused, crying dust, "Mother?" and faded.