Grey Freeman

A Man's Voice

He was starting to sweat. Shining, though black like the fertile earth of a farm, his garments billowing… decorations flashing, with gourds shackled to his feet, and baring crooked teeth at the world, he seemed to smile and scream at the same time. His brow was furrowed like bark, his feet bare, ashy, looking like roughly shaped stone. The music rained down on me, as if a torrent from all sides--no, rather--a tsunami. Not evil nor good, just an exhibition of terrible beauty and strength that only Mother Earth herself can tend to accomplish.