Act Nought, In Life
In the halls of the kings a lyre lies, picked up by a fool of doubt.
To high-ups he plays – the wretched reflection – to those of much value and vanities deceptions.
At one day, of many, the madman went missing – only to be found that he went out for a pissing. This mundane act, a necessity of living, enraged the bluest to stumble from seeing.
Now as they were, naked to see, without the neat clothing of prosperity to flee. The kings and the queens – in the grandest of halls, sought their own end, demise, their fall.
Yet the jester left standing outside the palace, without home, without tribe, without kindness or malice. He knew of himself, the vilest of all, that all men must suffer, that all men must fall.
Condition most grave, he now understood, is to be left alone with nothing to do. For all that can be acquired with gold and the rest – nothing is worth it if one cannot rest. That nothing is of value in the world of the breath.
