22 April 2023

Against The Storm

A little peasant was holding a wooden stick on his right hand. The stick was about the length of his arm, broken, of wretched wood, and unrefined. It was taken roughly from an animal pen or something else.

He had been standing there cautiously for a while, in the middle of the browning and dried paddy fields. Far in front of him was hills, behind which, tempestuous turbid black cloud was growing slowly, engulfing the hills in slow motion.

He clenched his grip on the stick and swung it in small movements. Cold and humid barrage of winds from up the hill blew more severely by each second, creating chaotic wailing sounds as it broke through the trees, hit the ground, and swept over the paddy fields. The hills disappeared completely in the growling blackness and thunders.

A storm was a certainty.

He walked forward pugnaciously to meet it halfway. To fight it.

Against the roaring wind I screamed, "who are you?"

The little peasant looked back and replied,

"I am you.

I am her.

I am everyone of us.

The Mankind."

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