The Fool's Discontent, Part 4

Seven parts. The seventh part is best. The rest? Well...

Read Part 1, 2, 3


IV.

Your guide glows as he takes you
To the high court room where the high judge sits
Before the residents
Over radiant glories you try to perceive
But it is so hard to make sense
The gold medallion round his neck
The silver crown with ruby lights
Upon his head of snow-white hair
And iron staff and granite jaw
All is meant to culture awe-
You know, yet feel it not so well
As you should, perhaps…?

But is this not a curious thing!
From the mighty hand of the judge hang strings
A panel of experts with numbers they bring
Pull and twist the hanging strings
Under great strain the strings will swing
The hand will slide
The numbers sing
Though alone they might be silent…

And now comes a man with a word of his own
Kneeling before the judge he throws
The offering
Up unto the iron scepter
The scepter dips
The experts stand
With excitement on their faces
They do the dance of tongues
All at once the word goes flying
Soaring over, up, around
Spinning, whirling, laughing, changing
Drawing life, becoming, being
Landing on the ground
Confusion now! You know not what to say -
The formless formed, a man in tatters
One the slave – now the master
Is it boon or bright disaster?

“Someday I’ll be welcome here”
Your smiling guide exalts
“After weeks
And days and years
Years of working with the leaders
I will stand along!
After dancing to their meters
I will make my song!
And step in step we all shall stand
Gathered here before the hand.”

So warm, the thought of brotherhood
(And sisterhood, lest we forget)
But some are not so blessed
Have you closely watched the hand?

There are years the hand points east.
There are years the hand points west.
(But of course it never marks the wrong direction)
Some have dared to turn away
Some have dared to laugh
Some have dared to reinvent
Some have dared to cry

Some have dared to try, and failing
Not to lie

But you should hear it:
The cost of divergence from the hand of the judge!
The scorn and the heat and the cold metal buzz
The head-shaking frowns and lament for what was
The ironic grip of the crowd’s gleeful jaws
The trampled-on feeling of truth that just gnaws
You might find your name all buried in sludge
You might find yourself locked away in a grudge
If you should ever dare turn from the judge

But when the judge himself turns
Which happens
Quite often indeed
Like black oil
On the open sea
It just slides by
Unmentionably