The hill of the cowherd

The chemistry of a winter sun goes well with history’s rocks and the gnarled trees of yesterday’s leaves. Stumps of fallen trees sprawl in the rocks of history as men make their way up on polished stones of time’s footfalls. Up there is a red temple to an ancient mother alongside brown boulders warm with tender sun. The trees shake with birds chirping like the voices of children waiting for the teacher to come.

A certain village official had bought God’s jewelry from out of the State’s coffers. Here is the dark of a cell in which he had spent years before he was released on God’s intervention. But dark doubts persist as brown-winged bats that have lived till today, that come to hit you in the face from history.

A matchstick is not seen as a flame but heard. Across the boulders and the blue sky, to the King’s palace at the top to alert him of unwelcome guests.

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