I watch over a young girl with an angelic face in her final moments.
I listen intently as she utters her final prayers over and over again until the life finally leaves her body.
I did not know this girl yet I feel sad.
I was a stranger to her yet she did not mind when I tried to comfort her.
I put her deep into the earth under an old tree of oak with illuminating white leaves.
Her prayers gave me a much-needed purpose.
I have traveled North to the cold mountains.
Then, South to the warm beaches.
Then, East into a dense forest.
And, finally, West to the big cities.
The angelic little girl’s prayers are never far from my thoughts.
It’s like a compulsion, a driving force when I encounter a certain type of person.
When I see the literal blood on my hands, and that particular person’s lifeless eyes, the compulsion ceases.
But only for a short time.
But with each compulsion, I get clarity.
That angelic little girl’s final prayers were not prayers at all but a mantra.
A mantra that carried a list of names who did her a grave injustice.
If she was praying, it was not for salvation or for peace but vengeance.
And I, being her instrument she summoned with her mantra, carries it out.
