What Fools They Be..
Spring arrives, and those who mark the Greening of the planet and renewal of promises made in Winter's thrall stand amazed and
Look upon the strange procession of those behind the moribund polyhedral pyre as it flits bird like first here, then there, and as if they were tantalus, chasing ever never catching, miss the miracle of spring.
Others watch this life-like pandemonium and marvel at the futility of some who throw themselves bodily into pits so that the bird if chance may see, may cross unimpeded and uninjured.
Strange this ghost of past and younger days doth seem alive and yet the stink of the grave lies all about, yet the bird with trinkets somehwo dropping here and there, sheds light that those who pick its droppings must be blind that the scat they gather be somehow the baubles of long gone Babylon, or Alexandria's library as yet untouched by vandal's fire.
I see as one reborn with black and white the strange endless pandemonium before the fall, and steer instead for pastures where once all gathered, held and met in peace. Even with the shadows of slain trolls now spirited off to their nether worlds of gripe and grind the air is more akin to ceremony and not substance.
What of the tune the bird doth sing? Shall the 'faithful;' ever chase and lemming-like into the sea shall fall, and all be lost? What the Pied Piper has wrought he now must pay, or sorry ends all will see.
exuent