As I looked from the top of the hill at the burning temple, the arrival of the gods was anounced. Most of the monks had ran away from the temple at the first cry of fire; they looked like black dots running away in all directions from the light that consumed what had been their home. Those that were left, oblivious to the anouncement, went back and forth carrying buckets of water, trying in vain to put down the fire. I looked on until the fire had consumed all the wood and all the stone and all the flesh that was there to be consumed.
Near dawn, a single monk came back. Several times he began to run in one direction only to stop in mid-motion and then turn to another, as if he didn’t know where he should start rebuilding. Finally he stopped, fell to his knees and started throwing the ashes of what had been the temple over his head. When the gods finished their walk through the city and arrived at what used to be the entrance to the temple, they found the single monk bowing before them with his head to the ground, his hands offering a mixture of ashes and broken flowers he had gathered in his desperation as the only gift he could present to them. Then he lifted his head to look at the faces of the gods, his smile as wide as the sky, his eyes shinning in the morning sun, amazed at the sight he was given to behold.
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