Silence. Even the birds show respect for this city's silence. It's as if the city is dead. Only occasionally a sound comes from the corners of the streets, and that too is just a message; a message from the plague, announcing its presence in this dead city.
I am riding a horse, passing through these streets.
Streets soaked with mud and filth. I don't know the way; I just follow the crows. Because they know the right path—the path whose destination is the beginning of one or more stories. Stories soaked in instability, ignorance, and inequality.
I am just a narrator riding a black horse, witnessing and retelling the story.
One by one, the crows were flying toward the city center.
The crows were not searching for carcasses or corpses. I realized this when I saw a cart full of bodies on my path, yet no animals approached them.
Except for one executioner, who had to burn them.
As I passed near the executioner, I heard him telling his son:
"Today is not a good day, because most of the corpses are children, and most of them are only between ten and twelve years old."
When his son said, "That's really sad, isn't it, father?"
The executioner replied, "Yes, unfortunately the priest pays only two coins for children's corpses, while for adults' corpses he pays five coins."
That day, the executioner's son learned something important:
Feelings always bow down before money and wealth.
The crows reached the city center and perched on a cross. That enormous cross was like a dinner table for the crows.
They were waiting for fresh meat; meat with blood flowing through it, but only for a short while.