Troubadour and Buddha. P. 3

…..#359/365 Paintings…..

And so, his imaginative reclusive days were over. To survive he had to come out of 
the hole and hope the blue sky he had been staring at for days would help him—would heal him somehow.

He grabbed hold of the ground and pulled with all his might to drag all 1 lb. of 
himself up to the surface. But a huge thunderous sound was coming towards him. It was a tractor. Though it
didn’t roll over his hole, the earth couldn’t stay glued together and buried
 him. He could barely breathe. He felt his life slipping from him.

Through a space in the earth he saw
the night sky–the vastness and nearness, the charm of the stars, they kept
 winking at him. They were laughing and talking. Oh, how he wanted his mother
right now. Her gentle nuzzle, her protective sheath, the comfort of her eyes.
 How could she have left him forever?

He dozed off and on, buried like this, half alive.