But I say to you, love your enemies
and pray for those who persecute you,
so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven;
for He makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good,
and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.
An old hut, hunkering down on its foundations, marks the end of the dirt road ahead. Between the trees, whose dark and slender trunks reach up to spiny branches, an open field lies under a naked white sky, so bright it hurts your eyes.
Like enormous stilted birds looking down, the electricity pylons in the middle of the field watch your arrival with indifference. You envision them creaking slowly over the dry scrub when the light fades, tottering over the rolling meadows for nothing but a change of scene, unmoved by the insignificant horror played out below.
A crow sits by the side of the road, its feathers spiked and ticking against the cold. Behind it, a make-shift shelter of rusted white iron keeps the first drops of rain off a neatly arranged pile of logs.
The first roll of thunder shakes the still bright sky and the crow takes flight.