A poetic snippet about the tale of the first Murder.
Murder, they said, was the consequence of a woman. It was her elegance, her loveliness and the allure that sprinkled her every move. She was the enchanting sorceress, the Venus of the universe. It was this beauty that lent them the courage to do what they were not supposed to do.
But what they never say, is that it was the greed, the pride of men that ruined them. That it was the desire to attain what was not for him that led him down the devastated road. That it was the pride, that made him think that he was invincible in the scheme of life. It was this pride that bubbled in his veins, that ego that ran rampant at the loss. It was this emotion, this neck tall in vanity, that made him traverse the terrible road. It was his, soaring esteem, this lofty conceit that led him to something that he was not supposed to do.
Because in the end, O Son of Adam, it is the demolish of the soaring elevations that leaves the terrible tragedies in its wake.