Run of the Mill

A poem by: Reputrius

Dust in the air,
dust in her throat.
A draught of meaning,
a draught of hope.

Sitting at the farm,
unbeknownst to alarm.
The daughters of Smith,
sat cross legged and knit.

Meanwhile,
down the road,
past brook and abode,
city folk talk o the day,
whispered voices low and grey.

Silent tension filled the air,
many a neck with raised hair.
“What’s amiss?”
A gentleman asked, a hiss.
The answer rang loudly.
The public heard soundly.
“Plague! It’s a plague!”
At this, the crowd laid an egg.

In haste the town awoke.
They ran to each bloke,
eyes wide, hurried lips,
worry chased, all in grips.
Excitement and a sick joy,
formed an emotional alloy.
Casted in hearts of those,
with starved egos.
Behold, one man's tragedy,
is another's opportunity.

They tromped and rode,
past dale and meadow.
Veins bulging; red faces,
convicted and haste-less.
Knocking down doors,
holding up stores.
The power of fear,
whispered in ear.

“It cannot spread.”
They righteously said,
“When we take control,
of the people of Dole”
Those deeply afraid,
knelt down and prayed.
“In the face of the plague,
we have heroes today.”
The righteous had orders,
and drew up clear borders.
With a bark and bite,
they enforced what’s ‘right’.

At home on the farm,
the Smiths spun yarn.
When one of them sneezed,
startling all to a freeze.
Worried, the girls knew,
this simply wouldn’t do.
They hid away their sister,
and called for the mister.

“Sickness is a crime,
in, this, such a time,”
the sisters heard it said,
yesterday from Miss Red.
Mister and Ma looked with a frown,
fearing the righteous in town.
Silence filled the room,
until an idea broke the gloom.

“She’s broken her leg!”
lied the sweet hearted Meg.
“Or she’s gone to work the farm!”
fibbed Lisa with her charm.
Then away the girls went,
to school and back again.
But as days stacked up,
the lie ran amuck.

A whisper from a fine lady,
a note passed somewhere shady.
Then all Dole was a’riff,
with that daughter of Smith.
That night, blood ran cold,
as the story was told.
And when the orange sun rose,
fear peeped out windows.

The righteous gathered at dawn,
right on farmer Smith’s lawn.
They broke down the door,
to see the Smiths, in horror.
Together they held one another,
with love, not fear, my brother.

After all was done,
the righteous had won.
The warmth of order,
had returned to their border.
Stiff smiles and short hellos,
paired nervously-rubbed elbows.
What was the cost of order that day?
The life of a sweet girl named May.
Soon the plague was gone,
and life carried on.
But two things remained,
some people never change.

A draught of meaning.
A draught of hope.

A follow up conversation:
(Enter Demophilus and Strontius)

(contd. below image)

Plato en Aristoteles, Wallerant Vaillant, after Rafaël, 1658 - 1677

(Demophilus)
I say my good sir,
this is truly absurd.
Don’t you know the damage you do,
to those a little less smart than you?

(Reputrius)
But it’s just a story,
there’s no pursuit of glory.

(Demophilus)
Don’t you know the power,
of smithed words that flower?
We must have control,
an information patrol.
Many can’t tell right from wrong.
So we sing an easy song.
It’s the moral thing to do,
left alone they’d die too.

(Reputrius)
Sir I have one thing to say to you,
An illusion has taken your mind askew.
No ones ever won a war.
They’ve just survived to fight one more.

(Strontius)
This is most pessimistic my dear lords,
come close and put down your swords.
Progress is real, or do you doubt the history books?
Are we the same as when mankind threw rocks?
I agree no war has ever been won,
but I disagree that so more are yet to come.

(Reputrius)
Don't you know the value of free speech?
How can we possibly assemble and teach?
Yes, we've had progress, but to what do we owe?
Isn't it democracy, free speech, and the right to know?

(Strontius)
What is this freedom of speech,
of which you've been a leech?
I search and I can't find this freedom in our society,
perhaps you can show me where it hides from me.
Reputrius, this is what society does, I muse,
some stories win and others lose.
Lets put it more correctly, shall we,
some places, compared to others, are more free.
This, my companion, is how we make sense,
a hierarchy of ideas, filtered by their difference.
After all who put this idea in your head?
You think you're the originator of this thread?
You are silly indeed to think your speech was ever free,
in a society that told you 'freedom of speech' is the way to be.

I end with this nuance as it would be hard to see.
Freedom of speech is a good value to me.
It allows us the full array of ideas and thoughts,
but speech was never truly free, that would be called chaos.

Free

Sacrifice