The Hermit

The bluish wind is coming from the sky's void. It brings the sound of a sword with it. Even people who have great dreams wake up during the night. The coward flees. The wealthy man has time to hide his money in a secure, deep location. In the heart of the woods. The rich man digs his own hole there. Descend into the abyss and encircle themselves in sharp branches. The man, who appears to be in need, is patiently waiting for the light—the person who carries wealth in his soul.

The executioner continued to search. It even reached the stone people. Sculptures crafted by the wanderings of wind and stubbornness of water. He talked to those sculptures for a long time. He learned many new things. About what can be seen and especially about what cannot be seen with the eye. He asked about the rich man's hiding place. A snake hole. And about the poor man's shelter. Heaven's mercy.

He was going to hurt his footing among thorns and brambles when he sought wealth. Someone else had found it before him. He was going to lose his mind prying into the mysteries of heaven. He didn't find the poor man either. Because the poor man is easily confused with the infinite.

Thus the executioner saw that he was the only wanderer in his crimes. He felt useless like an outcast.

He was kneeling before the hermit.

The clatter of the blade is heard after the executioner is lost in the nightmare. He raised his sword and swung it deep into the soil. Blood on the unrelenting blade will be removed by the passing rain. Innocent blood will turn brilliant with time, like the stars.

Trees are weeping. Within the tree roots, the icy or frightening shadows of the leaves are trembling. The days resemble a dark, short-sleeved, worn-out cloak.

A hermit lives covertly here, abiding by the norms of solitary. In his hazy reality, only he could be seen and understood. It murmurs sounds you can't hear while breathing and eating like a tree.

Trees are the echoes of creation, like ancient people who have lived their lives to the fullest. He stoopingly kisses the leaves on the ground before rising and disappearing into the sky.

The hermit perceives and comprehends. The hermit resides somewhere along an undefined purity continuum. Like the trees it cohabitates with, it breathes and eats.

The beginning with the smell of life, a bow in the face of imprisoned loneliness. Like a descent into a blind fountain.

The hermit releases his emotion like a flock of scared chimeras.

Dance as in a ritual invented right now, barefoot and wandering.

Around, and in the fire. The stars of the sky are like spurs at hermit heels, raising the dust off the earth. Knead like a dough modeled with a human face.

He has no soul and doesn't experience suffering in the dark. It doesn't even notice locked doors or walls when it travels past them.

He succeeded in capturing the world and then desired to experience the vastness he has mastered. He requested the sight and was given it as a gift thus he saw the first sunrise. Then he experienced his first death.

Come, enlighten wise hermit, where the signals of love abound.

To be able to see if I step among the flowers of the earth or somehow I float among the flowers of the sky.

The new face for fear of the dark opens his eyes and sees. Then hears the melancholy of the first rain, feels the depths of the earth beneath his feet, and smells the one wild apple blossom.

The executioner reaches for the apple, but the hermit offers him to taste the bouquet of thoughts.

The executioner prostrates himself on the parlors of mercy. He begs and cries for the first time in his life.

He has now discovered his purpose for existing.