Jean de La Fontaine whispers through the centuries,
his fables a chorus of warnings and promises.
The fox,
a silver tongue dripping honeyed lies,
coaxes a song from the crow,
her prize, a stolen piece of cheese.
We are all vulnerable,
blinded by vanity,
easy prey for flattery’s sharp edge.
The hare, all arrogance and speed,
sleeps while the tortoise,
steady and sure,
inches toward the finish line.
A reminder:
persistence is a quiet rebellion against the allure of the immediate.
The grasshopper,
drunk on summer's song,
begs for crumbs when winter bares its teeth.
The ant, ever-industrious,
huddles in warmth,
a testament to foresight and preparation.
I walk on,
the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles.
Each fable a mirror reflecting my own frailties,
my own aspirations.
The path, it seems, is not about finding answers,
but about learning to ask the right questions.
A slow and steady ascent towards understanding.
The path dissolves. I am the question now.
The Question Walk
The neon throbs, an electric blue heartbeat against the storm's grey breath. It hums: come, walk. Philosophenweg. The path of thinkers, of dreamers, of those who court the rain. Each step a question whispered into the wind. The trees, ancient and gnarled, hold no answers, only echoes.
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