A Fable:
Roses and wreaths,
Amber and myrrh,
Rich oils and fragrant incense,
Spilled over the grand altar.
The voices adorned the sunrise.
Their song highlighted the noon.
Soothing sounds bid the sun farewell.
Prayers flowed onward through the night.
Sometimes he pleaded, with wracking sobs.
Sometimes he entreated, with syrupy words.
Sometimes he demanded, with sharp and angry threats.
Sometimes he bargained, with collateral he never had.
He told others the gods would bless him.
They will give him all that he asked.
They would strike down those that mocked him,
And those that gave little in sacrifice.
What worth was a shy lad’s song?
Sung warbling, with fits and starts.
When he had hired the best trained voices,
To sing the Sirens to shame!
What worth was an old man’s cane?
Made by his son, now gone.
When he had bought arks of cedar,
That held more wealth than could be spent?
What worth was the little girl’s flower?
A weed she had tended with care.
He threw it into the fire,
Lest it bring shame to the boughs he laid.
The gods paid close attention.
With sharp eye they tallied the marks.
They noted who gave of outward riches,
And who gave of their heart.
To the shy lad, they gave a shy maid.
Equal in temperament, they sang duets in each others arms.
To the weakened man, they gave another son.
Elder adopted younger, and both were made strong in family bond.
To the little girl, they gave the birds and the field.
Blooms and song followed her, to match the love in her heart.
But to him, they gave nothing.
And took what little he already had.
He kept his wealth, his riches, and his place.
But the joy of living was soured and split.
So that wine tasted of rank water.
And bread, the dust on his shoes.
No one came to his feasts.
Even his dogs fled from his shadow.
Doors were locked against him.
The brothels turned him away.
As a ghost not quite dead, he roamed about,
Among those he derided as unfit.
Watching as the gods enriched those open of heart,
With blessings he had claimed as his.
In the temple he cried and he clamored,
Against the fickle gods that betrayed him.
How dare they take his perfect gifts,
And leave him with no life in return!
“You gave of yourself, the same as all men did.
From your depths, you poured out before all.
And each man was rewarded, each in his turn,
A gift that matched his heart.
“You who spurned others, is now rejected the same.
You derided what you couldn’t buy, sell, or steal.
But it is not enough that you, should receive in measure the same.
You want a double portion! This will be granted to you!”
He fled from the temple at once, fearful for his life.
He ran through the blooming fields, past the singing creek.
He ran through the town, past the men in the square.
He ran to his storeroom, where his hoarded wealth was hid.
He fell to his knees and grasped his wealth,
As if it would rise to his defense.
But under his hands, the gold blackened and broke.
All he held was fading dust.
The diamonds, the rubies, the silver, and the gold,
All decayed and rusted in his thrashing grip.
The silks, the linen, the wool, and the leather,
Twisted and curled in unseen flame.
His cries brought the townsfolk with water and blankets,
To put out the fire they heard him declare.
But all that they found was a madman deranged.
Clinging to the dust of his shoes.