“Then, whom should I ask?” The sun thought for a minute. The wind was listening closely,
and wanted to tell every corner of the world that the sun’s wisdom had its limitations.
That it was unable to deal with this boy who spoke the Language of the World.
“Speak to the hand that wrote all,” said the sun. The wind screamed with delight, and blew harder than ever.
The tents were being blown from their ties to the earth, and the animals were being freed from their tethers.
On the cliff, the men clutched at each other as they sought to keep from being blown away.
The boy turned to the hand that wrote all. As he did so, he sensed that the universe had fallen silent, and he decided not to speak.
A current of love rushed from his heart, and the boy began to pray.
It was a prayer that he had never said before, because it was a prayer without words or pleas.
His prayer didn’t give thanks for his sheep having found new pastures; it didn’t ask that the boy be able to sell more crystal;
and it didn’t beseech that the woman he had met continue to await his return.
In the silence, the boy understood that the desert, the wind, and the sun were also trying to understand the signs written by the hand,
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