He was quiet for a long while, then he knelt up slowly and bent forward.

There was a secret he had carried in his heart for a year.

He had not dared to look at it; he had not whispered it to himself, but for a year he had carried it.

"I hate God!" he said.

The wind took the words and ran away with them, among the stones, and through the leaves of the prickly pear.