He lay in the filthy street, with matted black hair and beard, lifeless, white-washed eyes, as if a cloud of milk were injected into the ocular fluid. His mouth was partially open, dried crust surrounding it, and his lips stuck to his teeth. I stopped to look at him, I prayed for him, and I wondered, not deeply, but fleeting thoughts about what must have brought him here to die. His level of faith challenged me, and sparked a journey to go deeper.
Advertisements
