Written by poemsfallfrommycursedlips
[The names are placeholders, representing the quality of the characters. I was gripped with the idea this morning and have not had time to fully develop it.]
The crowd of protesters grows louder and more riotous. Slurs begin to fly. The line of Police in armour grows nervous. The Spirit, sensing a turning point in the gathering, climbs up onto the Police barricades, facing the crowd.
Comrades, come back from this vicious attachment!
Do not go down the grim path of violence.
Stray from the narrow trail of the enemy;
inflexible, thick with bristling brush.
For scrimshawed in your hearts;
the sweet verses of virtue,
the love of fellow man.
Hold fast to this feeling
gripping our great movement
and cease the slide to sanguine hatred.
The enemy, in his bitter brutality,
awaits your answer
do not become him!
The Spirit raises his arms to the crowd and from the rear of it a rock sails out, lobbing over his head and into the line of Police, crashing against their shields. A volley fires and the Spirit falls forward into the crowd, who drag him, and the others who have fallen, away as they retreat. The Body steps forward and furiously begins.
You may have slain the Spirit,
but the body yet lives!
Animated without soul,
a worse fate awaits you now
defenders of the destructive reaction.
There is no sanctity blessing our actions,
no conscience to hold back
this vacant violence.
“No man is happy until he knows the end,”
I have heard it said,
and I cannot tell you what that will be.
You have killed our prophet
and blinded our vision
all that is left are ideas
and unintelligible ire.
Our rage swells forth,
unfettered by hope
and engulfs our fate with flame.
Even as ash we will not fail to come at you!
A second volley fires and the Body falls back into the crowd, who leave him lying on the ground as they now flee in terror. The survivors move offstage and converge in the meeting place of the previous scene. The Intellect addresses the weeping, anguished survivors.