One day, a summer day, after years, after I had crossed my teens and sought my degree, I was trekking. I was tracing back to my village to trace my half-forgotten race. I met a grey bearded man, old of age on my way to my village space, to accompany me. He started to sing of time, of times best gone by, when we sat besides a spring to rest a while. On a creeper besides the spring, grew a cucumber, fat beside the spring in a slumber.
Slice it twice. Continue reading