🕊️ The Parable of Two Villages

Strangely enough, disasters do not fall from the sky.

They are sown by people themselves —

like crops, sometimes from the best of intentions.

Once upon a time there were two villages — the Upper and the Lower.

Between them ran a river, shimmering like a mirror,

reflecting the beauty of those lands.

In both villages, people worked, grew their grain, and greeted the sunrise.

Almost everyone was kin to everyone else,

and they called each other simply — the Uppers and the Lowers —

and no one took offense.

The elders were wise, and the people calm.

Nothing foretold any trouble or grief.

Of course, sometimes someone misbehaved,

but such things were rare and quickly settled in peace.

Generations passed, crafts flourished,

trade with the outer world thrived —

and it seemed that the good life would last forever.

Then one bright spring, the Upper Village chose a new elder —

a man simple and just, with a fine gift of speech.

Perhaps because he had toiled hard since childhood,

he longed, above all, to be loved.

He ruled well enough, spoke beautifully,

and the people strove to please him even more earnestly.

Little by little, words about peace and labor

turned into songs about greatness.

And at the same time, doubt and criticism

came to be seen as treacherous and dangerous thoughts.

Yet the years went by, and the plentiful life still continued.

The elder, listening to the people, believed he was doing right,

and the people themselves were glad to believe it too.

When the elder tried to ask about troubles,

the whole village would reply in one voice:

“All is well, and it could not be better.”

Gradually, the elder’s faith grew —

that the Uppers were destined to rule the river and the forests.

For the heavens and the earth themselves, he said,

had granted them the higher, nobler place.

And the people gladly agreed.

Soon — no one could say exactly when —

the Upper Village began to raise a war host.

They said it was only for defense.

The forests were thick; who knew what dangers lurked there?

But they also warned the Lowers:

“Do not dare to sow doubt in our chosen greatness — or beware!”

The Lowers could not believe it.

“How can this be? We are all kin! Why would you do this?”

Yet one day, the Uppers crossed the river after all,

seeking to seize their neighbors,

heedless of advice or conscience.

The Lowers could not endure it either.

Clashes flared, and soon everything was confused —

kin and enemy, memory and blood.

The battles dragged on — days and nights,

then months, then years…

And to this day, that war smolders,

like coal beneath ashes.

At night, the river murmurs differently —

as if it remembers the names of the fallen.

The forests around stand silent;

no beast cries there, no bird dares to sing.

They say even the wind upon the hills no longer knows

on which shore it was born.

And of the Uppers’ former glory,

nothing remains but dust and bitterness.

And in neither village is there now peace, nor bread, nor sleep.

— Erian Lin Grant, July — September 2025