I jostled for a pocket of airspace to observe - pried between shoulders of my ignoble peers, on tips of toes, peaking past plebeians. On tongues, the congested cobble stones roared with a frenzy at the culmination of the longest trial in the Shires history. The gallows stood stoically, silent, raised above the hysteria of the crowd, the town square frothing in a red mist. The noose swung with wicked calm on the delicate lips of the wind. The song of a doomed man. His final words, as his neck slipped through the knot, to be left unrecorded, unheard but to the ear of the hangman. The condemned – my beautiful son. The cruelest revelments murdered the air. Be silent! I cried his name. Nothing. Only mouths are we. Who sings? The distant heart which safely exists in the centre of all things. My son.
Written for dVerse’s Prosery, a short prose, in 144 words, incorporating the line;
“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?”
– from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”
Story by © Darius the Mate
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