The field then wept, for a friend who had died. Ten days of snow shall not shorten our lives as long as we have warmth in our coats, and knives in our pockets.
Thereafter came three friends to play a game of water. To see which one could hold water longer than the others. And they each claimed that the water would split through their hands with the speed slowest of them all. But none of them could measure, for just what was their pride? They bragged as if such a skill could hold back the death which comes upon us all.
Such is humankind in all its false pride. For every soul is an ocean, a mirror of water with ten fingers of time in the evening between the spaces, and in the depth between the stars. No man is alike, no woman is the same. Each has its own story, its own place to begin. Each heart is not a measure, to compare with another. Each mind is not a staircase, with some taller than the next. Each kiss is not a race to run against another.
What matters most is the numbers, eternal as they are, that we throw upon heaven with all the evening stars. For now is the holy desert, the place that we call home, in the world by which we see morning, and in the twinkling of every light, that gives meaning to our lives.