THE TAPESTRY OF FABLES

THE STORY OF THE EARTH

Stories, what are they? As old as time itself, stretching through the ages: from distant camp fires  and tales by moonlight, heard from songs of griots and bards, to the movies of today.

Stories, they are every where, like an endless tapestry with thousands of threads running through it.  The tales of different people, of different lands, of times  that there were, of what was and what never was, of myths and legends, of men and gods, of heroes and villains, of love and sacrifice, of all humanity in it's glory and it's disgrace, of beasts and men.

Yes, a story is a very powerful thing in the hands of a story teller. A storyteller is a Weaver of words,one who taps into this rich tapestry, and utters the binding words of a story; that binds teller and listener, words that have been whispered through the ages, before Aesop's fables, and Homer’s Odyssey ,  the Iliad  and beyond that to the distant beginnings of stories etched on stones walls.

What story do I weave now?  I know not, for my tale is but a thread in this sea of a tapestry, as such it's molded by the waves.

I'm telling you a story, as my kind has for thousands of years—The story tellers.  But I'm only vessel, a medium, for each story wants to be told, to be heard, some however,  haven't found the voices to tell them yet, or the ears to listen.

Listen closely, I tell you the story of the Earth.  Before the men sat around fires to tell the first stories, or compose songs, there were stories told not by lips, not by words but by all that was, and this tale is still being told till this day, only to those who listen to it.
   

When the world was young and new, the trees told a tale of theirs in their own way, of rich life and growth, of youth and vibrancy in tall stems, in widely spread branches, and leaves swaying in the winds with blessedness and harmony, at peace with nature, with all and in the will of the Creator.

The flowers told yet another story of  beauty, of loveliness, of grace and content.  Much beauty could grow side by side, none jealous of its neighbor, but content to blossom and cloth the earth with rich and lovely colors; with beauty so innocent as never was before, as was the will of God, as was His will.

Mountains were heavenly, great stones that rose to the skies, crowned by glorious clouds and ice, clothed in green.

The Sea were was were life began.
The deep blue sea, blue as the sky, mother of fishes and all who walk the paths of the sea.   She was then of a blue never seen today: a blue of purity, a blue of unpolluted essence.

The Rivers flowed through the land and lakes adorned it like gems.

All was graceful. The songs of birds was a  magnificent melody, simple it was, but yet creating the most blissful effect. 

The stars, those lovely jewels of the night sky, each shinning its radiance, unbeaten by any jewel wrought by man.

The Moon, she who was to be the muse of a thousands stories, a thousands poems and songs, was the silver orb of the night sky. The Silver eye that watched all, saw all at night, yet having no life itself, gave life to the night, that light may shine upon the peaceful earth.

Yes ,yes, tales have been told of how this paradise was lost and some of how it never was. I shall not ask you what you believe.

As the ages went by, men saw the stories in trees, in flowers, stars and all of nature, and they became part of our tales, of our songs, poems, parables and proverbs.

Yes, some men could look at the stars in the sky and see the tales  they told, or the content of flowers in the field. 

As the years went by, many men stopped listening, men forgot the beauty of nature; the trees grew fewer and the green began to fade.

The Sea bore host to the choking waste of men, the fishes dying wantonly.  

The flowers still bloomed and the stars still shined as God had wanted, but only few listened to the stories told by nature.

  Man is a part of nature, the gardener who sadly has become the destroyer.

I wonder if trees and all had lips like us, what tales shall they tell? What story shall the scarred earth tell of our countless wars and bombs?

What was once is no more, what will be?  None knows but many dread.

This story my friends is not yet ended, shall it be a happy ending or a sad one? I know not, for some stories  are completed not by the storyteller but the listeners.

What do I ask of you? Only what you must know yourself.  Listen, value all God has made, preserve, keep all that has been entrusted to you.

As I have entrusted this tale to you, I have entrusted my voice to you. Whenever you tell this story, you're a story teller, telling the story of the earth, our story.

My work is done, all that's left is the ending. And for that, we shall wait and wait, as the trees grow, as the flowers bloom and fade, we must wait. We must hope, we must be.
All proclaims the glory of God.