Outside

When he was huddled in the darkness, unable to see the creatures that made the sounds around him, unable to breath the putrid stench of a cell unwashed, he'd survived, remained sane by imagining being able to see the outside world.

When they had moved him, shackled and blind folded, prodded into a stumbling gait, He'd silently thanked the gods.

From his cell he could see outside, feel the cold fresh air, raise his face to the wind. From his cell he enjoyed the rain as it splashed on the steel and concrete, washed himself as a stream flowed over the low wall, tumbling to his feet. From his cell he could hear the freedom of the brids as they sang as day broke.

In his cell there was no lull as the wind tore through, wrapping itself around his body, ignoring the rags he wore. In his cell the stream became a river, a torrent that threatened to take him beyond the wires, if it could, dicing him into pieces. In his cell the birds mocked him, waking him in the cold darkness, leaving him to shiver, awake and despairing before dawn appear and bought new torments to him. Allowing him to see freedom, to taste freedom, to smell and feel it. But never reach freedom.

He longed for the darkness of his old home.