( The Book of The Saint )

Little eyes wide. Horror and bewilderment. “Shall the rain not cease to fall? And this storm! Shall it not ease? Is this the end of the world? Do ye not hear the clamour and screams? Can ye not bid the winds stop, wise one ? And if ye ask, will the Gods not bend ?  What of  today, of which ye talk, what of  my tomorrow’s dreams?”

The wise man straightened, still deep in thought, his eyes still on the ground, ” Is it not enough, that we are reminded today ? That we shall think of nothing but our nothingness. That, and of all we so covet our pride and splendour razed to the ground and washed away. Is it not enough that today we shall think nothing except of  the Gods above and of us? And tomorrow, lad,” he said, ” tomorrow, your chance; your turn to build. From the rubble and carnage to salvage – having been reminded, to build better still under warmer sun and livelier breath of wind.” A wizened old hand patted the babe on the head, ”Sleep now, little one, quiet until the storm doth ease.”

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