Saturday, March 04, 2006


There was a man who sat beside a busy path on the crest of a hill and railed against the world. Railed against all the wrongdoing and corruption, stupidity and greed.
The more he protested, the louder and angrier he got. Passing folk averted their eyes and their ears, embarrassed to be seen listening.
Still he continued, not knowing any other way, and soon the passers-by grew immune to his noise and stopped hearing him altogether.
Gradually over the years the area around the man on the hilltop became littered with unheard words. They lay around in scattered heaps, exclamation marks and commas, degrading syllables and scattered letters.
The man grew old and his beard grew long and grey and his voice grew weak. The grass grew over and through the words and letters, entangling its green tendrils in his beard.
And when the entanglement left visible only his closed eyes and his open mouth, still talking quietly to himself, he became one with the hill; indistinguisable; a nipple on its rounded crest.
And the hill grew a little taller and began to whisper his words into the ears of the passers-by.
The Book of Fate - Parables

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