Eight days apart, demons were quickly separated from saints. It did not take a lifetime to decipher who the real saints were and who had been the demons. For while the sonorous voices blended in less contradiction, it seemed the calmness was a fashion. But lo, the coarse voices increased in volume. The seemingly harmonious music was interrupted, and cacophony arrogantly arrived from its hidden house of contemplation.
They played the saints when it was their turn. They said others were dead, for they wouldn’t challenge the facts of their claims. They preached of their castle built in the air and insisted that others must see the sightless frame. While contenders argued in the contrary, they told the people they were demons. In their marking scheme, one must see the castle, even if it only exists in the doubtful minds of its promoters. To complete your agenda of deceitful proportion, you must be a gambit of weightless disproportion.
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And so it came to pass that the week lasted through. Although it seemed so endless in its order, the prayers of the saints could not be further hindered. They absolutely enjoyed their treasured field day. They celebrated and enjoyed while it lasted. They took their free time and struck their pleasure gongs. Their flutes sounded high with pitch like a horn. They gathered in their thousands for such were their numbers. They made their little silvers and had no disaffection. Their pockets got the fragments of notes from the hilltop. They stood in their comforts despising distant tongues.
Again the music expired and time travelled still. It was a golden time for revenge. It came with its vigour and spread like a wildfire. The season disenchanted the flurry of their merriment and brought a new decorum to balance the equation. It mattered not the extent to which they had messed. But nature had its powers to fix the worries of men. It was a glorious season and many saw their countenance. For when the table turns and brings a joyous moment, they bounded do enjoy the climate of their freedom.
The fusion was 33 and drums rolled out. All corners heard the pitches of the music. The dances were symbolic, although it served some purpose. The leader had instructed that everyone stays home, as there would be no tape cutting. Such order didn’t matter, as long as we were untagged. The tagged did have schedules to move from place to place. Their duty was hailing and clapping the central man. For structures were now open for use by the public. And others were the marks for common identity and unity, even if it never counted for want of practical synchrony.
And so reigned the tongues of utter consternation. They cried aloud for help as figures were unchanged. The unmatched numbers pitched their tents against the lords. The figures of the towers which exist on the plane; a dozen and a half, but they could not be seen. The shouts of their fame have reached the zenith kingdom. But hands do not join the duty of the service. The millions of the active population range have no option that roam the town and glide at the gates. The production centres are said to feed the nation, but nothing can be said of its people’s violent hunger.
As usual the topmost speaker arrived the talking box. He thanked the higher chambers for flying in the air. His comments could be despised, but some have got the lesson. He praised the subdued warlessness in Warsaw as a town. He marked the script with conscience and promoted the due. But for all the other scripts, he stained them all with blood. For nothing could be done to erase the failures. In jumping off the box, he gave a reminder. And asked the highest throne to send the 13 pieces of silver to their roots which have been mercilessly raped by helmsmen in the region.
For that they formed a union, to disfigure his face. They quickly assembled in discomfort of their private estates. They spilled the beans at ones, and told the world their roots. For slavery was no difference from instant happenstances. They called him certain names and had no reservations. They got their contracts right, for nothing pays like blackmail. The one that stains the righteous with disposable scars from their hill. They counted his blessings which lasted more than 33. And queried his morality in pointing to the wrong. They ascribed him the demon and opted for the saints. For everyone who dared to pass a note of worry, they stamped on their beasts, the badge of a demon. In all their trade and investments, the battle did not end.
As if the Lord had chosen to wind the hand of time, He caused the wave of time to blow their season out. It was the time for all to mark the end of youth. For studies have reported where youthful age resides. And for the next six years, the circle would be out. Perhaps that’s Moses’ rode, waiting to strike the rock. For such is certain still that water will gush out. For all the thirsty souls will now be satisfied. At 66, they sure would know their end is near, because their complex contraption is old enough for fruits. These people took their trumpets and sounded round the mountains. They pointed to the failures, as if their guilts are cancelled. They cursed the old dispenser and called him an impostor. They scorned his dispensation as rooted in Sudan.
In all their meditation, these people fenced their territory. They demarcated themselves secure with iron gate. They all misled their people and made them more derailed with liquor of depravity. As they would most be convenient, they wish to be the saints. Of course with all their worries and gospel of deception, they still presume they’re blameless in all the fangs of misrule. They see themselves as saints and see the rest as demons. For whosoever falters from joining their charade and makes any attempt at pointing to their error would best be seen as demons. In all the length of time, they must be praised for failures. And still in their intuition at condemning the topmost, they have the greatest liberty to be that which they wish. It is this blatant lies that compels the scars to view these sorry figures as circumstantial saints and demons.
