IT was the break of dawn when I saw a young lady who was waiting for the sun to reveal its full glory. Eventually, the blurred image of the woman was refined by the brilliance of the sun. She looked like a flower blooming gradually as she drew her stamina from the glare of heaven.
From my point of view, I could tell that she was joyful, if not modestly ecstatic, because of the steady progression of the majestic scenery before her. When the rays of the sun hit her delicate skin, like a goddess, she basked in the shining glory of the sky. Indeed, her beauteous appearance from afar was a spectacle worthy of admiration and praise.
Plagued by curiosity, I decided to take a closer look at the mysterious maiden. As I approached her from the back, I heard an indistinct sobbing—a disturbing sound caused by pain and angst. As I claimed the nearest post, the distant reality I witnessed moments earlier was actually masking the underlying truth.
Now, I could see the scars engraved on her back, the healing wounds on her thighs, and the scratches on her neck. For some time, I was under a state of shock. Before I could withdraw, the maiden turned around and faced me: she had red stains on her dress and a charred face. She wept as blood trickled from the fresh lacerations on her wrists.
As the sun revealed its full glory, so did she. F RYAN PIOLO U. VELUZ
