The builder died. Of all the buildings he built, of all the bricks he laid, the tower where he lived was the last to crumble. In his walls hung the pictures of his legacy. Smiling faces and fading memories, nothing could burn except the last image of his dead body in the memory. That remains printed for the world to see if the world is daring enough to open the conscience of a damaged animal and take a look inside.
A pyre was lit, chantings throughout the land echoed, people marched out from their houses to see a fire burn higher than the sun. Night became day. What was called the grim hour became the time to celebrate. Life was honoured. If the silence was patronage, his life was the secret that the wind carried on its shoulders. All around the village the wind spread and carried word of his passing. And his people, who owed him so much, carried their last goodbye in a rainy afternoon.