Siddhartha's father emptied his vaults to lavishly furnish a palace for his son, who was prophecied to be king or Buddha, take your pick. Dad chose king. He might have put the money to better use. The castle became a jewel-encrusted cocoon, Siddhartha Gautama nestled therein.
Singing, dancing, laughing child actors were paid to play their joyous roles. Crying and yelling were made capital crimes. Echoes of some muffled blues were once heard but mistaken for honky-tonk.
Excursioning out from the palace, Sid came upon four passing sights.
An old man, a sick man and a corpse taught him of change, decay and inevitability. And a mendicant monk taught him of his destiny. All to the same end. He gave it all up and readied himself for a nap beneath the Bodhi Tree. He awoke without resplendence, the Buddha.
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