I walked down the streets of Darfur.
I stepped in a pile of blood.
Walked past the children crying.
I walked past mothers, starving kids held in their arms.
I stepped through towns, poverty stricken.
I ran from an army truck loaded with bodies.
I walked past groups of people, same color—same race.
But then, I walked past a man, clearly a victim.
Yet he looked almost clean, and without worry.
And curiousity took over me.
I watched him, watched him go into a dirt paved field.
And I watched, as he picked up a long cross, and held it over his back. I followed him, as he strode past the city. As he past a small crying girl, knees scraped with blood. I watched as he filled his hand with the blood and scooped it onto the cross. I watched as he took the sword away from the soldier, and balanced it on the cross. I saw as he took the pain away from all of the people. I watched as he strode back to the field, as the healed people spat on him. I watched. And I watched as he died.
3 Days, I watched..