In a small village lived a man
Who no longer had a wife.
The only son that he had was now
The pride and joy of his life.'

While the man was away one day,
Some plunderers came into town.
They ransacked the homes, kidnapped the boy,
And burned the houses down.

When the man arrived back home,
He found among the rubble
A charred body. Assuming it was
His son's, he took the trouble

To have the body cremated, and then
He put the remains of the lad
Into a bag that he carried with him
Wherever he went. Poor dad!

After the man had rebuilt his house
With a memorial dome,
The son escaped from the plunderers
And found his way back home.

Hearing a knock on the door, the father
Wondered, "Who could it be?"
The son continued knocking and said,
"Father, it is me!"

"Go away!" the father said.
"Leave me in peace!" he cried.
"I won't open the door to an
Imposter. My son died!"

Frantically, the son continued
To pound upon the door.
He finally walked away in sadness.
Ah, the grief they bore!

The years passed by. The son would wonder
Every now and then,
"Should I return?" but sadly he
Never went back again.

When people are so attached to false
Ideas that they embrace,
They hide from the truth, even if
It stares them in the face.

-by Bob B (7-14-23)

°An old Buddhist parable