He had gone from a forest of trees to a jungle of graves. His large legs no longer walked the thorny paths but the sinister, partially flowered alleys of a cemetery. His nostrils no longer smelled the wild whiffs of woods gorged with the rains of May. Instead, it was the smell of a soil turned over countless times to bury the dead. His ears rose when he heard voices approaching in the distance, those of prospective tenants for the burial garden that had already devoured the bodies of their ancestors. Zen then flip-flopped to welcome the first and fastest of his pursuers, offering him a vision of horror: that of a big wolf with a dark coat who ,for one night, would take on the role of gravedigger. There would be no flowers or wreaths for the hunters, only a monstrous snake of fire as master of ceremony.









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