The Idiot 

The idiot walked a long, curving road lined with gently swaying silver grass, his wooden sandals and dark robes caked with pale brown dust. At last he came to the river where some merchants sat, examining ornate and empty tea cups. It was late afternoon but not yet dusk. The idiot lit a small cigar and listened to the merchants praise one cup or disparage another as he built a small mound of charcoals. Lighting the charcoals, he boiled some tea in an old kettle and poured it into a crudely ribbed earthenware cup. The smoke of his cigar and the steam of his good tea wafted over to the merchants, who laughed at him as they packed up their belongings. The idiot watched them cross the stone bridge and bow respectfully to the watchman holding a lantern. When night fell, he remained there listening to the crickets, the gurgling river and the hissing coals, draining one cup after another, now and then lighting another cigar. 

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