The waterfall spoke for the only god the people knew, the god that was the Earth. And the water had been falling ever quieter during the drought that began six years ago.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Now they wait for the last drop from the waterfall’s mouth, when there will be no resolution left, but for someone’s blood to be spilled.
Drip.
Drip.
To trade one soul for the survival of the many.
Drip.
Image by Max Gindelle on Pixabay
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