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The Empty Altar

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He was born from simple people, but that he never mess. Successful in life through his own power, and he knew that nothing and nobody can stop him. He also knew that he hasn‘t a great destiny, and feel good as an ordinary man.

Sure he had ambitions, sure he was proud, but not much more than the helpless people of which he hit in over four decades of his life. He knew, however, that he was tributary of a sensitivity, strange to others, being off the road by the beauty of a flower, or gentle and moist eyes of a orphan puppy…

He did not see people as something that could be divided into “perfect” or “negligible”; he takes them as they are, just have some doubts about his own soul. Who does not?

He wrote stories about love, about battles, about impossible love, but true love he rarely met even, he was aware that he was keeping risk to confuse erotic thrill with the ultimate sense of self abandonment …

Each day he passed by that part of the city where a strange sculptor, died throwing himself from the scaffolding of the cathedral under construction then, placed in a niche a statue representing an almost perfect feminine beauty. White marble (everyone believed that this is the material of the statue) lend iridescence every moment of light and rendered the viewer an amazing palette of colors that attract and conquered them.

No one knew who was the first resident of the city that brought a bouquet of flowers and a lamp to the statue, making it the altar, and there began to come more and more people (disappointed by the fact that the sacred religious entities not met, despite the prayers, fasting, committed canons and offerings, no desire) to pray.

Aroused by curiosity, he found himself one day that he queues, waiting for his turn to kneel at the feet of the statue. Several days in a row he did the same, then began to come tonight, later, when the place was empty and the strange altar was not assaulted by crowd of people hoping to be helped by the redemptive power of the statue.

Alarmed by the danger of creating a new sectarian religion, the city’s priests paid a jerk to destroy the statue, so, one morning, the unconverted people of a religion that does not exist, found in the alcove the statue broken, just ankles of the statue remained intact, the chipped debris lying on the ground. Then everyone saw that the statue was not marble, but patinated plaster… “He tricked us even after death, this freak suicide!” the false believers cried out, and turned to the established altars.

But he continues to come to the empty altar and lean his head against the ankles fingers crippled by the barbaric act… Days and nights in a row, until tired of seeming indifferent to the mocking smiles  of those which until then was queuing at the foot of the statue.

He was moving on the river and rebuild the white statue that gave to the imagination so beautiful colors, in his soul. Then he began again to pray …

(Translated from aMorale, by Marius Cilibia)

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