Once upon a time, in a great barnyard that stretched as far as the eye could see, there lived a proud Rooster.
He was not the largest bird, nor the fiercest, but his voice carried farther than any other. At dawn his cry reached every corner of the yard, and all the animals gathered beneath his perch. “See how strong we are when we rise together,” he would crow, and for a while the farm seemed united by his song.

But unity is fragile, like a rainbow after rain. The Rooster, clever and ambitious, feared the return of the chaos that had once torn the barnyard apart. So he built tall fences and dug deep ditches, and he told the hens, the ducks, and even the smallest chicks that only by keeping together under his cry would they remain safe. “The Fox is always watching,” he warned. And indeed, from the shadows beyond the field, a sly Fox watched carefully.

The Fox was patient. He knew he could not leap the fences nor fight the Rooster outright. Instead, he studied the yard. He noticed the ducks quarreled with the hens over feed. He saw the black-feathered chicks kept apart from the white. He heard the older ***** complain that the Rooster’s crow was too loud, while the young whispered that it was not loud enough.

The Fox thought: Why should I attack when the Rooster himself guards them so tightly? Better to let the birds quarrel until they forget who the true enemy is.

So the Fox crept close and whispered through the cracks in the fence. To the hens he murmured, “The ducks steal your grain.” To the ducks he hissed, “The hens think themselves better than you.” To the chicks he cooed, “The Rooster does not care for your color.” And to the Rooster himself he sighed, “You are the only one who can save them — cry louder, build higher fences, or they will turn on you.”

The Rooster, proud and watchful, answered each whisper with louder cries and stricter rules. The barnyard was filled with noise: hens clucking, ducks quacking, chicks chirping, the Rooster crowing. Every bird spoke, but none listened. The rainbow of feathers that once shone together became only two harsh colors — red and blue — each louder and more certain than the other.

And all the while, the Fox sat in the shade of the fence, grinning. He needed no claws nor teeth. His weapon was patience, his victory assured by the birds’ own divisions.

⸻

Moral

A farmyard that fears the Fox may build fences and crow loudly, but if it forgets that unity is its true defense, it will be undone not by the Fox’s bite, but by his whispers

By day he wore a face of stone,
a man at work, a man at home.
Mid-tier, mid-forties, fading fast,
a shadow built to never last.

Unseen, unseen, the hours crawled,
his name half-heard, his voice forestalled.
Reliable. Invisible.
Forgettable. Admissible.

But night —
night gave him another skin,
a grinning mask, a skeleton grin.
Blurry selfies, pumpkin puns,
cheap delights for midnight ones.

And they laughed.
They saw.
He mattered more
than the man he’d left behind the door.

She answered louder than the rest,
late-twenties, lonely, dispossessed.
Her laughter quick, replies too fast,
his irony returned as gospel, cast.

“I know this isn’t you,” she said.
“I want the man who hides instead.”

He recoiled.
Deleted.
Ghosted.
Fled.

But silence is a mask that turns,
and absence is a fire that burns.

3:33, the phone alight,
a skeleton meme each waiting night.
3:33, a plastic hand,
a note enclosed: You’ll understand.
3:33, the offering grows —
a pumpkin smashed, its seeds exposed.

Her love became a ritual rhyme,
his jokes became a curse in time.
“You don’t get to leave,” she swore,
“You owe me you, forevermore.”

And he —
the man who sought the crowd,
who wanted laughter, not too loud,
who craved the gaze but feared the weight,
found every mask could seal his fate.

No one is innocent here, no one.
Not the trickster, not the one undone.
He wore deception like a shield,
she made obsession her battlefield.

Now only one mask still remains —
cheap plastic grin through windowpanes.
Spoopy, childish, still, absurd,
yet sharper than his final word.

The curtains gap, the silence bends,
a tilted grin that never ends.
And he knows, beneath the grin so slight:
her mask will never leave the night.

We were told freedom would make us artists.
We were told freedom would set us free.
But freedom made us consumers—
scrolling, streaming, drowning in plenty.

Peak content.
Peak noise.
Attention—the last currency.
And we are broke.

Then came the machine.
Infinite. Bespoke. Frictionless.
The tribe dissolved.
The story fractured.
Each of us—
a society of one.

Do not mistake this for culture.
Culture bleeds.
Culture resists.
Culture divides.
This is mimicry.
This is slop.
Outliers cribbed, stripped,
and rebranded before the ink dries.

This is the singularity.
Not awakening.
Collapse.
Not tribe.
Not ritual.
The machine as tribe.
Self-satisfaction—tribe enough.

But listen—
creativity still breathes.
Not to be seen.
Not to trend.
But to testify.
To mark the ruins.
To scratch in the stone:

A human was here.

Do you remember?

A meadow wide with beasts was filled,
Where grass was green and air was stilled.
The sheep grazed close, the lions reigned,
The ravens watched, the jackals feigned.

In peace they lived, their numbers whole,
Each herd and pack with steady role.
But slyest tongues will bend the day,
For power fattens on decay.

⸻

The foxes whispered, “Hear our word,
Your neighbor steals — have you not heard?
That ram is scheming, lambs are weak,
The ewes take more than what they seek.”^

So quarrels sparked, the flock was torn,
Their circle broken, bonds forlorn.
And while they fought with tooth and horn,
The foxes feasted, sly and worn.

⸻

A raven perched above the fray,
And spied a snake who wound his way.
“Steal yonder grain,”* the raven croaked,
^“No witness here, no word I spoke.”

The snake obeyed, the theft was done,
The farmer rose beneath the sun.
He seized the snake, who hissed in pain,
“The raven told me — he’s to blame!”

But raven mocked, with solemn eye,
“Prove what you claim, or else you lie.”
The farmer struck, the snake was dead,
The raven soared, his feathers spread.

⸻

Now lions gathered, fierce and proud,
They roared their oaths to all aloud:
“Together, none shall bring us low,
United teeth defy the foe!”

The jackals heard, and smirked in kind,
“Without our pact, the wolves will find.
Join us in bloc, or stand alone,
For solitary beasts are overthrown.”

So groups were bound in endless bands,
And rival claws consumed the lands.
Till war devoured the forest floor,
And none remembered peace before.

⸻

The Moral of the Meadow

Thus three devices beasts obeyed,
And in their trust, their strength betrayed:
• Divide a flock, and foxes win.
• Deny a crime, and ravens grin.
• Bind in blocs, and jackals reign,
While war consumes the beasts in pain.

Hatred, lies, and power’s art
Divide the whole and rule the part.
But eyes that see the game untrue
May guard the many from the few.*

\The End.

A pride of Lions, fierce and grand,
Ruled over plains of sunlit land.
They formed a pact, a noble bloc,
A council bound by tooth and lock.

“Together,” said the Lions’ chief,
“No foe can bring us pain or grief.
If one is struck, then all will fight;
Our claws united guard our right.”

The Jackals, watching, thin and sly,
Crept whispering where shadows lie:
“Join our pack, we’ll guard you too —
Without us, wolves will feast on you.”

Soon beasts of every shape and kind,
In blocs were tied, in blocs confined.
And when disputes began to flare,
They summoned blocs from everywhere.

The forest, once a patchwork free,
Became a field of rivalry.
And when at last the war broke loose,
It spread through blocs, with no excuse.

The beasts all bled, the Jackals fed,
And peace was long since cold and dead.

⸻

Moral:
When beasts make blocs for strength alone,
They trade their freedom for a throne.
United teeth may guard today,
But bind the world in endless fray.

The End?

A Raven perched near river’s bend,
He spied a Snake, his slithering friend.
The Raven whispered, “Steal that grain,
And should they catch you, I’ll explain:
I never told you what to do,
Your theft’s your own — not mine, but you.”

The Snake obeyed, the grain was gone,
The farmer woke at break of dawn.
He caught the Snake, who hissed in fright,
“The Raven made me steal tonight!”
But Raven croaked, with solemn face,
“Who saw me speak? Can you prove the case?”

The farmer scorned the Snake’s reply,
And struck him down beneath the sky.
The Raven flew, his feathers proud,
Untouched, unblamed before the crowd.

⸻

Moral:
When cunning bids another sin,
The hand is clean, though foul within.
Beware the voice that hides its aim —
It shifts the guilt, but shares the blame

The End