Death Don't Have No Mercy in this Land
DEATH DON’T HAVE NO MERCY IN THIS LAND
Sunset was the scribe’s favorite time of day. He lay his stylus down. The marks he had made in the soft clay tablet were perfect. He always wrote with care. Each little wedge-shaped mark represented an idea. The scribe marveled anew whenever he thought about it.
All afternoon Utu shone upon the vast plains of Ur, upon the fields of barley and the groves of date palms. A thousand years before Abraham was born, the scribe sat in his house of sun-dried brick and inscribed words in clay. When he was done, the tablet would be baked until the clay was hard. Then the story it told would be as permanent as the tablet. But for now, a soft breeze blew in from the Euphrates and the sky was rosy and golden.
The scribe lay his stylus down and went outside his house to watch the sunset. And to dream.