There on the small hill were the three burnt tree stumps
Now I carry water in my mouth to irrigate them
Spitting it out where the blackened roots end
Not with disdain but with heart raised for blessing
I return to my hut cleansed
ensconced within a forest so dense
The track there is called repentence
I am the hermit this is my solitude
Yonder I see town smoke and tower protrude
The path there plagued by bandits and wolves
Plagued by illusions of peasants, masters and fools
The essence of a story based civilization
Markets, intersections, gossip and impatience
mocking the obscurity of my lonely existence
I attempted to convince the bandit he could be saved
He tensed up offended and threatened me gravely
He hung bread from a branch a foot from my cave
He thought my reclusion was holy and brave
The burnt tree stumps budded not through my attention
But through this inner miracle of his redemption
I was healed not through my communion or cleansing
but through this bandit now whole and repenting
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