And the gong beats thrice,

for the one who walks beyond the river.

---

Once, he was shadow,

Once, he was storm—

but now, a hymn in the mouth of mourners,

a carved mask of old proverbs.

---

The scribes gather at the crossroads,

sifting dust, refining echoes,

the past laid out like palm fronds,

stripped of the wormwood and the thorn.

---

No one sings of the poisoned cup,

unless the poison suits the tale,

no one calls the vulture’s name,

unless feathers must be burned in incense.

---

Truth kneels before the sculptor’s hands,

chiselled to fit the altar’s glow—

in the end,

only the gods remember

the man beneath the story.