The Spanish Conquistador dismounted his stallion on the edge of a towering precipice. He had leaped from atop here many times. On countless occasions, he felt the blood rush to his face, he and his mount ascending in the air. He knew the pain of thousands of tiny pins piercing his hands when the rocks far below him would at last break his fall.
“Today,” he said, “I will soar to my long awaited death”.
A silhouette of a once great conqueror led his horse against the setting sun to the peak of the mountains periphery. He had longed to see the ‘New World’, as a boy he loved its legend, dedicating his whole life to its discovery. After finally finding it, he had nothing else to live for, his job was done.
Shouting at his faithful steed he dropped to his knees and both hands rose to the sky: “Why?” He asked. “Why did we drink that water?”
His head in his hands he wept a bitter cry and muttered a solemn pledge to himself: “No matter how great my thirst, or how inviting the source – I will never drink again.”