Some say the old man came from a far faraway place where the people, his people were pretty much different from the place he is now.
Nobody knows why he is there, by chance or by his own admission and only selected few knew the mystery which shrouded his person but those selected few too were long gone before they could tell the tale to the world.
On certain days when his hands are not shaking and his bones are not cracking, he would just graze his eyes to the east where the sun rises as if he remembers something and try hard to recollect what’s left from his memory and mind which never failed him since the day he made his pact, his promise, his only vow to those who had listen.
He is far from the modernization but not that far from the civilization where once in a while hunters and travelers would come by and sit along with him and they would exchange sweet and bitter tales from their journeys. On some cold nights he would offer them his homemade ale and in returns they would listen to his story.
He himself had lost his track on time because to him, time is just an infinite space that travels too fast and before one could grab the moment, it’s gone forever.
He is the last of his kind but before his time is up, he has to live with the burden of his memories of something that once he had embrace into his mind, heart and soul…
Salam, he is not the Dalai Lama I presumed!
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