Drenched in tears from the Earth Mother, in their arms treasures wrapped in rags like no other.
Grouping not together but alone or in mismatched pairs, waiting for the roadside snake oil men to sell their wares.
Feet shuffled along on the road of mud that was once dust, heads down low from the rain lest their hearts rust.
The salesman waited with black smiles of glee, ‘We will trap them here, they will never be free.’
When the many souls asked the price of the poisoned vision in the salesmen’s bags, they lifted dirty crooked fingers and pointed at the treasures wrapped in the rags.
One by one they lined up in order through today and every tomorrow faces filled with the glee of the purchase and the hopeful loss of the sorrow.
Crying could be heard from the waiting crowd, they did not want to lose the treasure, some of them said it should not be allowed.
Walking away were the ones who were not shaken and brave, the ones who wanted to walk on didn’t want to be the slave.
Onward they pressed through the raging wind and the rain, at times they had to ignore the roadside, fight through the fatigue and the pain.
Soon the rain would dry up and return to the sky, and even if it rained forever they still would not let that treasure die.
Mud went back to dust and now you could see the remains of the walk in their shoes, but it was not dirt but badges of honor, proof of payment of the dues.
Along the path was a temple and there also a great shrine, with a hole in the center of it all, a storage place for the treasures of the weary and the divine.
One by one they unwrapped the rags from the heavy burden they carried, but they loved it now, no longer wanted it buried.
Inside the rags was the bright light of each of their true souls, because right beneath the surface, the treasure of self made them whole.