22
The Way of the Cross
Utterly worn out, the fugitives turn in from the highway and make their camp in the forest at the very edge of the road.
They stay there for days, for a week, upon occasion for two weeks.
They chop wood and make fires.
They cut it down, not asking
—Whose is it?
They cut wood indiscriminately, continuously.
When they have absolutely made a space bare, they move on farther.
They eat into the forest.
And behind them they leave the fresh-hewn stumps of trees, the bare glade, the black traces of the bonfires.
They trample down everything.
No grass remains, not a bit of hay, no leaves from the trees which they've cut down, no branches—the ground is covered only with a sort of grey dust, with a litter of light rubbish.
