They lit fires in the woods they cleared, and with fire came worship. Old people turned inward, toward stillness, toward silence.

Wars broke. Races mingled. Gods were shared in smoky air. Some brought rituals, others talked about the soul. And a ladder was built. Those closest to fire rose, those mixed with earth sowed.

Rituals deepened, but work did not stop. After each fire, they asked: “What is the point of it all?” These questions became forest wisdom, echoes in quiet minds.

Knowledge passed, but only to some. The rest were needed, to keep the wheels turning, to keep the fire alive.

The ones atop became scribes. They listened to bards, wove myths into lines, and slowly, a religion grew.

Centuries passed. Ascetics multiplied. Top to bottom, silence spread.

Then came the kid from the south, fire in mind, not bound to rite nor retreat. He debated all, rose swift, found the land’s greatest tale: the grand war.

In its heart, the great dark warrior, in trance, speaking of inaction, yet exalting action. One mind in all forms, he said. Use them fully, there is no better thing.

The kid was moved. He wrote as none before. “This is the truth,” he said “All is one, but action must go on.”

And so ends the god’s song.