When, in the
inexorable rhythm of day and night, the earth had been
cultivated, in which the plough, as was its destiny, had
torn its furrows, and the seed that had been planted in
it had brought forth promising fruit with the rain of
the sky and the rays of the sun, another year was
drawing to a close.
The sun and the bull had done their part to bring the
task, once entrusted to them together by God, to the
path of maturity. Time after time, changing winds had
demanded serious constancy and also bitter diligence
from them. Often the sun had had to make its way for its
rays through heavy clouds, often the bull had had to
wheeze its way through stony ground before the plough.
That was how the world was made. But now, after
sometimes sweet, sometimes hard work of summer, the time
of harvest and enjoyment seemed to have come.
"Now at last," thought the bull, "we may live on our
toil and receive the blessing. For good and renewing is
life in its return."
"Are you not tired of the eternal ploughing, sowing and
reaping? Is there no better?" the extinguishing sun
asked him, turning away, quaking by weariness.
But the bull, shaken by knowledge, for he had understood
well, replied after a very long silence: "How could I be
weary by my destiny? Is not its blessing in constancy,
worthy of all toil?"
But he was full of grief and without arrogance.
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