Which Fate?

It was not the last station at the edge of the cliff that station after which we thought there was no road but surrender to free fall into the valley. It was not inevitable fate to circle, eyes closed like the oil-press horse around a millstone. – and the millstone: an empty mill in the corner of an abandoned village far from people, without history with the wails of a dry hinge – You squeeze my hand hand in hand little by little we pass through the valley...