by Antonio Napoli

On the eve of a crucial battle, the king of a powerful African city—now lost to history—wished to question his people about the transience of human affairs.

A farmer said:
“We are like a leaf that shines and stretches in the green of the morning, then bends and falls in the yellow of the evening, carried away who knows where by the colorless sadness of the wind.”

A craftsman said:
“We are like a spark of doubt, flying from the hammer of a new creation, swirling through the air before leaving the unfinished work in darkness.”

A poet said:
“We are like the shadow of a speck of dust in the shimmering vortex of the universe.”

A warrior said:
“We are like the dewdrop dripping from the tip of a spear after bringing death to something that believed itself eternal.”

The king pondered for a long time on what truly endures in the world.

The day of battle arrived. After addressing his men, as he inspected his troops, he approached a soldier who seemed lost in thought.
“Are you ready to fight?” he asked.
“Yes,” the soldier replied resolutely.
“Have you eaten?” The soldier nodded.
“Have you washed your bowl?”
The soldier hesitated. “No, my king.”
“Go, wash it properly. We must be loyal in small things as well as great, in small tasks as in great ones.”

That day, a fierce wind was blowing. The king retreated to his tent and fell ill. He was cared for by his devoted nurse—the woman who had raised him like a mother. Meanwhile, his army, lined up in the open field against a formidable enemy, prepared for battle with the courage and anguish of great occasions. Thousands of spear tips gleamed against the sky, where clouds drifted like flocks of sheep.

In the furious clash, no one could escape like a frightened mouse: one either killed or was killed. The sword of transience passed from hand to hand, making the battle’s outcome uncertain.

In the distant encampment, the feverish king groaned in distress.
“May I at least live long enough to know whether I will leave this world as a defeated man or a victor,” he pleaded.

Grieved by his suffering, the nurse told him that if news of the battle was slow to arrive from the earth, it might come from the sky. She drew back the tent flap and pointed to the clouds.
“Oh my king, when you were a child, I taught you to read the shapes of clouds as signs of the future. Have you forgotten?”
“Of course not,” the king replied, struggling for breath.

He gazed at the sky and saw a lion-shaped cloud advancing against another that resembled a swarm of gnats. He felt as if he were watching the battle unfold. The lion-cloud sank its mouth into the swarm, scattering it. But soon, other clouds surrounded it, taking the shape of hyenas. The sky darkened with black patches, as if the clash of weapons had reached its peak. Then, slowly, the sky cleared. Only one cloud remained—not as fierce as the initial lion, but tattered, resembling a wounded elephant, yet still standing on its feet.

A smile lit up the king’s face. And he passed away.

A few hours later, a general arrived, breathless: under the now-gray sky, the battle had been lost. It was later discovered that betrayal had been the cause.

Taking advantage of the king’s order to go wash his bowl, the reprimanded soldier had sneaked into the command tent, stolen the military plans from the table, and delivered them to the enemy—hoping to gain some fleeting, transient reward.