Leaves twirl before the flames, gathering into a silhouette. The features are hard to discern, yet those aroun…
Leaves twirl before the flames, gathering into a silhouette. The features are hard to discern, yet those around call him a "hero."
A gust of wind fans the fire. Amid drifting gray ash, the figure seems to become more than falling leaves.
Is that the stain of River All Red spilled on the ground? A pot of fine wine, poured for heroic souls who fell along the way, for an uncertain tomorrow, for a vow to slay the invaders side by side.
Is that night snow settling upon his shoulders? He bore his Mo blade from snowy peaks into a sea of blood, three hundred disciples marching behind him in the name of justice.
Is that the cloud his mother once pointed to? So many words left unsaid in her farewell letter, words she had hoped to speak in person when he returned home.
Is that the candlelight burning through the night in the army's tent? A man in uniform, clearing the way for grain convoys with his letters and decrees.
The wind swells, and thousands of leaves whirl through the air. O listener, can you hear their stories carried on the wind?