Singer liked singing. He would spend hours in the idyllic meadows and rustic woods, with his mandolin and play dulcet notes. Notes that spoke of freedom and love like doves and   left longings in their wake.Tunes that reincarnated with every emotions of a dreary mundane day and transformed them to something  ethereal. Singer himself was so intoxicated with his own muse, he never questioned why or how or since when: he played on. And the trees swayed, the birds chirped, the brooks babbled, and the little kids from hamlet danced, the lovers kissed.

Woods cut trees. He woke up early ever morning and came down to the forests to lumberjack pines and conifers and cedars. His silver steel axe shone with the brilliance of Jupiter, and every bead of sweat on his toned muscles sparkled with the energy of the sun. with each blow of his weapon he could bring down the mightiest of the birch. He never sold them for wood to the carpenter, he let them lie amongst the breezy shrubs as trophies of his valiant conquests. He was proud indeed.

Woods had chopped off every tree in all forests till he came over to the woods where Singer weaved his magic. Singer shuddered with each blow Woods struck. His songs were eclipsed with each blow of the axe, his notes drowned in the cacophony. The petrified trees no longer swayed, the birds fled, the kids went to fetch wood for the carpenter, the lovers went to the hills. Singer was shattered.

So Singer walked upto Woods and said, “I will present you with the best of my creation if you will quit this forest”. Woods was puzzled, the fame of Singer had reached him but never paid much attention. Faced with such a quizzical proposition he wondered. Finally he spoke, calmly,”If you will play the song that makes me give it all up, I will!”.
Singer played, played the best tune he ever made. The kids stopped collecting logs, the trees wept, the birds came back and perched on their fallen homes, the lovers kissed. But Woods was unmoved, “No, you play for the trees and the birds and the lovers. Play something for me.”

Singer went back. Everyday he began preparing a new piece for Woods while he closed in on his haven. Singer toiled hard, he tunes gradually moved from the sweet trebles to the heavy bass. After a month he gave up his beloved mandolin for the Cello. His notes were sombre, his lyrics blank. He dirge for the fallen trees echoed with thunder of Woods axe. Finally after a year Singer realised he was ready.

He confronted Woods with his opus. His melodies made the earth rumble, the trees shook, the brooks changed path, the birds flew to the farthest corners they could, the kids became men. His cantata reverberated in the bowels of the earth, in the loftiest ether of the skies. Exhausted, after who knows how long, he stopped. Woods was mesmerized, the axe slipped off his sweaty palms. Without a word, he left.

In the triumphant silence, Singer knew he had lived his life. He had nothing else to prove, no melodies to compose. But then, as if the heavens had it planned, his eyes shone with a diamond joy: the joy of a new muse. The joy of a new beginning, the joy of a new epic, the joy of a journey never thought, the joy, the sheer…

With trembling hands Singer picked up the axe…