Rising Sun: Issue 6

The Tyrant
by Lawrence Ritchie

A land made lorn by The Tyrant's neglect is reason enough for him to seek more.

He attacked us last night. The few who remain see their once prosperous town devastated beyond repair. Behind their withdrawn faces, they weep loudly. So many friends maliciously killed, their work forgotten. A monument built in tribute to a history lies broken.

Yesterday, around the sparkling waterfall of the western outskirts were sprinkled huts, blending beautifully with the keen greenness of the hills abound. Their thatched roofs that let in raindrops in the winter, the rug on which they fall rotting away. . . Outside, the grass grows long. Its sweetness wafts gently with the breeze, whispering imaginary holes through a blanket of fog. . . This morning at the market, I went to buy some fruit to quench my nagging thirst brought on by the seething sun. . .

Wake up! Today I could only drink tainted water from the village well, its taste reflecting the bitterness of The Tyrant. He sent his armies in to raze the buildings and kill our people. I drank from the bucket and then urinated its bitterness back out again.

Through the fog I see the horses coming for us. He will capture us and then command us and we shall obey him out of fear. We shall forever hate him though. And his riches can feed him and his servants pamper him while we cry:

Boast not of your worldly gains
For you are king of but this speck alone

Fathomless righteousness lies looking back
From the arch of the rainbow yonder

Look and you shall see your self

Walking happily along its elevation

This ever-distant closed door
To a greater dimension
Where the rainbow's resplendent
But wan in the closed mind
Of you

The tyrant

Contact: TheRisingSun@bigfoot.com http://www.crosswinds.net/~therisingsun/November2000/