Sagas, Short story

The rags.

They’re all but tattered rags or less, it is but feel or price which changes. The colors serve to distract the eye and the form declared always the new.

It appears that those, the humble are viewed different as the new tattered rags of tomorrow emerge. So lowly is the life that is seen that would mend by themselves with practice and stitch what others would neglect or burn.

Long has it been where the colors of nature were wanted or needed to them. So far removed from the hunt or as prey that importance is nought but being noticed.

Yet into the shadows and deep in the wood where the old ways thrive over new, the pelt of a bear or the skin of a deer is warmer than a thousand silks. And always it looks as nature around, as an image so honest of where it comes from.

 

 

 

A prompt response.

11 thoughts on “The rags.”

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