The golden sparke of light reflected upon grass, leaves, the treasure hold of nature (with many a guard to watch over it). A breeze to cool the warm, but not uncomfortably so, plays flute music upon the kings of bark. There he stands. He listens, do not need to lean in close, for the trees speak loud enough to be heard at reasonable distance (for those who know to listen). He remembers now, with mirth, of once being told the voice he heard was that of the wind. True, in a sense. But that voice is another, spoken with the crowns of the ancient kings as tounge. He listens now, not to the wind played upon the leaves, but to the kings themselves. They often speak of times long gone. But when caressed in a manner only known by those who care, they may also tell the tales of recent times. Such a tale is told to him now, and such tales has been told to him all morn. Not a queer occurence nor an uncommon such, for he does this every day, and has done so for as long as he can remember. 'I fell, tenfolds of Me. To the soil, down, to the soil. They will be Me and the soil. Time and again. I sang to them, those who once was Me. They listened, and they sang to Me. Time and again. I saw my brother. My brother who are many, many who are Me. They sang to Me. Time and again. They saw Me, I sang to them. They who are Me heard. We were content. Life. Time and again. I saw tenfolds of them fall. To the soil, down, to the soil. We sang to them. Time and again. They saw them, who are many, who are Me. They sang to Me. On the soil, they sang. Time and again. Those who are not Me, came, fast as I am not. They saw Me. They did not sing. Once, but once. They moved, those who are not Me. They saw my brother, who are many, who are Me. Once, but once. My brother, who are many, who are Me, sang to them. To them who are not Me. Silence. Once, but once. They severed one who are Me, that are Me no more. We sang to them. They did not sing back. Never. They took Me, who are not Me, who was Me. I am alone, was alone, until it was not Me. Never more. Fast they came, those who are not Me. Fast they left. They did not sing, but took. Once, Time and again. But never, never more, I pray. I who are they, who are many. Brother.' There he stands, hears a tale. A tale told often, yet always sad to him. He does not cry, nor does the ancient kings. It is a price he - and the kings of bark - is prepared to pay. One of many, instead of many of one.