Five fingers grew. The fig tree knew his magic green into the blue would match the greatness of his roots, would bring the goodness to his fruits. The fig tree knew, remembered he would be for his five-folded rightful seed of majesty. The summer came but fruits grew not. The fig tree thought too much, besought he to the sun of heat and rain forgot. ‘Well’, thought the great, so thinking tree, ‘The essence I shall keep in me, not waste it on the bees. I’ll grow inside me many flowers that none would come to see.‘ A man came by and asked for food the fig tree would not give. The tree ignored his hunger and turned inside his creed. Angry at the barren tree and hungry still, man cursed: ‘What good are you being so great, when fruits you share not? You die inside yourself. I wish your roots to rot!’ The man had left. Behind, his words so powerful, so true, shook the life inside the tree, and thus a new desire grew. One only burning thought remained: follow the wise man. The life of roots his body left, with all his inner fruit.
