Nature tells an age old age story
Each day in the small valley of Kendasor, the children gathered in the field to listen to the storyteller. Fun and imagination were the fare. Each story blossomed from the seed of a child's thought. All things were possible, where dreams of the storyteller came to life. For one short hour each day, fantasy replaced the mundane. It was a freeing time of reverie, where castles in the sky really did exist. Illusion came to dance, a happy dance in the minds of the children. For one hundred years, each generation of Kendasor, had been blessed by their time spent with the storyteller. It was a golden ritual of shared memories.
Time had withered the storyteller, but still, she stood proud and mighty, on her hill relating the stories for the children. Her age imparted wisdom. She enraptured with her words. Her whispered song and verse carried through the hills on the wisp of a breeze. The children that visited grew in number each year, but still the storyteller called them by name. Each child had captured her heart, giving her endurance and strength. Virga was the blessed name of the ancient chronicler of tales. Virga held the enriching fruit of the future and the timeless eloquence of history. Her stories taught love and empathy, with promises of a better tomorrow.
Virga's, reapers of wisdom, the children, brought tokens of love to the storyteller. The gifts were of no intrinsic value but offered respect and gratitude to poetess of life. The presents fortified and nurtured Virga.
One fine spring day, Virga sat on her hill awaiting the gathering of her children. No one came. She called to them through the air that carried her message of longing. She sang a psalm of old, as a beacon to her hill. A melody of yearning floated through the valley, with no tune of response. Her echo lay empty in the field. As is, with the passage of time, days turned into weeks, with no child to listen to the tales of Virga. Lost in the emptiness were the dreams of the millennia, the history of generations, and the power of imagination. Virga wept in her sadness.
War, had come to Kendasor with thoughts of the simple life ripped away. .Goodness had been replaced by malice. Compassion stood no more. Hatred for those of difference ruled. Prejudice and self-absorption became the woven fibers of Kendasor society. There was no more time left for storytelling. The children could no longer hear the tender whispers of love in the air. Virga had been abandoned on the hill, with her stories left untold.
The storyteller, wilted high on the peak of a hill, overlooking the valley. Virga's branches sagged with the weight of hatred. Her roots were anchored in the bitter soil of animosity toward mankind. Hostility among the children, she had called by name placed a costly toll upon the tree. Virga, the age-old fabler, witnessed the suffering of her offspring of the future. At the base of her trunk laid the worries of the minstrel's unborn hopes.
Yet each spring, Virga renewed herself rejoicing in the sun on her branches. She flowered with the buds of faith for a new day. She continued to call to her children with the wish for kindness to carry forth. She trumpeted a call for unity, in anticipation of peace. Virga planted her seeds in the earth, with hopes of tomorrow's rebirth
The tree, the storyteller, and the Virga dream about goodness returning to the land of Kendasor. One must look to the tree, to hear the story of optimism and the song of hope.
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