"A turn at the pull." Discourses with a stanger along the way.

When the stars threw down their spears

and watered heaven with their tears:

did he smile his work to see?

did he who made the lamb make thee?

-William Blake

Somewhere from deep within the Western Veldt, came one claiming to be a Shah in some remote principality, some rice field baron or something, perhaps actually just a large-scale farmer than formerly a principe or something, that maybe he had a kind of sway among the local dignitaries and things, and threw his weight around, while the backs of the populace patiently sat to take a turn at the pull.

What he was--who he was--but smoking flax, for all it mattered in the province--coming along the way, shoes wearing and all, having sojourned, traversed, made a point and array along the fair mapping of the area, but not too much taking notes about it, such that one could, to an extent, lose their way, had they not the Way of Heaven to hold them in right-mindedness, and such that anxiety would take over in the meantime.

A familiar inn or way station would do one in such position a world of good: a plate of beans and a cup of coffee for the traveler, and soon enough, he began to intercourse on belief, and it was then we made preliminary indulgence to speak of the way of heaven to the fellow. 

All that transpires underneath is but a transposition, an increment of the way of heaven; how we seem so very cardboard, maybe, and mush-mashed child-crafted effigies of actual real people.  How to communicate that in polite intercoursing with the fellow?  The Way of Heaven?

Ice water from the crick in one hand, and the quenched flax in the other, that was Ming, perhaps, subdivision, one in two, two things observed in one thing, like the proper and generic nouns applying to a thing: the yin and yang.

When a child, one performs his tasks as a child, and when an adult, to the more adult means and techniques, but we tell the stranger, "the Way of Heaven", such that elapsing in to the eternal is but a continuance of virtuous living.  One would make equivocation then that virtuous living was akin to holding to the way of heaven, that after life, such that living well meant pretending one was dead, and we didn't have a particular wordy sort to contend the point, to the extent that the traveler went his way, having not only not adopted our Way, but thinking we were all perhaps something of a misguided bunch, some 15-20 people, mostly from around the way-station who had coagulated around the conversation with him.