souls, no matter, call it then the final flare of dignity. An Inward outreach as the outward crumbles; like steam of a doused fire; the heat; the burst flare of its red blood splashing in the hot mist.
This beacons upon the breast of our rampage of 'Doer'. Begs his skin like a love's caress for embrace.
To do onto others then is to not fight fires but feed them. It is no place for the giving of tears or watered compassion. No, but rather, only the oak sinewy of sacrifice will flare again this fire in chaotic gusts of suffocate.
Bend down, Man, or you good Men and embrace your father's ember. Stoop and rise up from your tiny horizon. He has need of a 'Doer' while dignity, his dignity, still rubs raw upon your declining skin. Face his fire, do not yield to gawks and squawks and the judgement of what is now the skinless hearts of men about you.
Red raw, their hearts bled through their palms, how can they know of fires from their dark places; when the very touch of neighbour gives them squealing of fear, terrorized their hearts will fall from their dangle by a single last nerve in a rib cage open to the tarnish of dust.
There is a time for father and sons. He has given you flesh; his need begs of your skin, your purpose, your intent His pale twist of hand taps upon its woven fabric, begging of real life for both father and son.
For life is not of prolonging life but of saving life. And to save life has little to do with death.
Remember our chariot driver. Our traveller. Though death may not be prevented, lives were saved. If the traveller died, his life was saved from a dwelling ever after in the remorse of men. For that is a deathless existence without life. And would not the driver, even cruel as Hades, know now this act of 'Do'; its warmer breath upon his skin? Can a heart not but pulse different?
And if our traveller lives but the driver dies; dies before the pit, is this not your father?
Death was always certain but the Intent harvested it early. But was not Intent pure; innocent of all malice by the untarnished will of First Law? Why the puzzlement? For the father asks for a more abrupt road than a gnarled long gnaw upon the ragged teeth of pain; a pit long in anguish, long in drop. Can you not then 'Do onto others as you would have them do onto you'?
For I tell you this: those who will not live by the sword will find no mercy upon the sword. That is, if the sons will not kill the father, will any spare the sons? No. Those who cannot reap have sown nothing. And will lie in the same of grovel when their pain of dust settles upon their decline.
Doctor: But, Beggar, what of this: believing the law wrong and the father's need is true, can we not 'Do' in the fierce petition of the Law to undo this taut restraint?
Beggar: Again, again, sirs, I beg you understand, beg you sip my fault of whispers deep through your pores. The pain of a father is not the pit, it is just too long a road; it is the law which yaws as a hungry toad!
And two ways to change law. As Man, to 'Do' against law is to not just oblivious to law but oblivious to men. In the outrage falling, in the forth come of persecution of men among the Man, the Man struck down but always inevitable the law will topple. For men can obey, can shoulder any burden of law ever and ever but the murder of Giants lies uneasy upon their brow. They are a little burnt to it. For of the law they look only sideways but of the Man they must look in an ache upward. Good for the world and only this is good for the world that men have not as yet drooled away all taste of Manhood; have not as yet forgotten they are indeed the source of Man; just as the most starved of bitch-dog does not devour her final pup. From man issues Man, Man the embryo giant; the worms, though fearless in the grave, squirm into shadows at his living stride. And unlike worms have a path of regret to repent. And does not the martyrdom prop the Man ever higher should men peel upon his heart's intent to give bleed of regret. Terrible in its cost true but the end, the end of law is bartered through the blood of means. The other means? To petition first amongst men? To use law to heal law? A means into its own end? It can work. Can work even bloodless. Bloodless to you. Perhaps. Not the father.
For to petition is to nibble upon law with gums of unrest. Too big a bite and a shallow throat gags while the oration of men warble their disgust, their rise too of outrage. Long, long the saliva flow, a river indeed of anticipation, till justice is served, a cue of final unresistance.
It is at the pit, the law, to do this: the traveller heeds the danger, a great gaping crater of untruth. He resolves to render harmless. One by one, diligent, in ignore of time as a multi-wing of foe, he drops into the canyon the pebbles. To fill the law and smooth the road.
The solution has no denial, though seems only one jerk of a less absurd than if the man waited for driver and mulecart to fill it.
It is to be above man in the same lead as the turtle herds the snails.
It is also to remember that our traveller has a very wide back turned to the road as he labours all so diligent to his designs. It is likely that his corpse will indeed pebble the largest of his intent; driven into a short wing of flight from the careen of his neglect behind him. Lending avails to his list of unknown deeds and epitaph.
Lawyer: Here's greater rule we've found, tossed from oracle-eyed beggars, not despotic first or the flags of old womanish councils but rather the scythes of giant healers! Those whose orbs burnt away of all companionship, all brotherhood but rather as you say, alone in their dust (A dust of their own making, I scurry) are guided only by the inflame of chests rent by some glorious of expected sunrise or bathe in boiled sulfurs! And none can know the mad unless mad too! They, you say, are as unjudgeable as I say they are unmerciful.
Gods unleash, man, that society is the tree and the ripe harvest the unripe! Are the boughs so of scatter that what is unspoiled must be plunged away by the downward drippings of those might swollen in their feast upon inner worms!
See the streets, beggar. Give each man a sword and beg no questions. This one envisions his brother's wife a burden, this one has oracle of a family drowning, this one has pity for the lame, oh mercy upon the red bathed cobbles that so many can judge and execute their inner designs.
Come, friend, lean to my dagger as my other hand presses friendly upon your back, for I would save you from a great sorrowful harvest of so many deaths, of fire, flood, murder, intrigue, god, demon, pit, climb, sickness, old age by your death now, here, amongst these wiser giants. The natural, so called, of death is too unpredict, though sure in its fall, it has a vulture's eye for time and a desert's grain of origin. But I, Giant of your destiny sure, (though mine eludes outside the perimeter of your beatless heart) offer the Supernatural death.
Yes, beggar, these will be safer more religious streets for I, as they, will always 'Do onto others as I would have them carve me' but I will 'Do' you first.
Then, agreed, it is your turn!
The brothers explode their tension into laughter, spilling around table, chairs, wine glasses and then laughing at the beggar's face. A sadder face now for his has known before that the more bitter tail of mockery always proceeds the telling turn of an ass's bite. Questions answered, if received on the flattened ears of stubborn gait, digest quickly into answers questioned in such bays of indignation.
After a subside, as the brothers wipe all tears from eyes mirthed in remains from a wine's dancing, the beggar dwells his palms before their look, to beg silence, attention.
Beggar: Heal well, brothers, for the graver the matter the more need for lightness amongst this time's swirl of approach.
But a question, upon the robes of our only small court gathered here: the lawyer, is your father dying?
Lawyer: Of course, he is. This our end to a rather gasping draw of discussion
(More light chuckles)
Beggar: Are you dying?
Lawyer: As of all men, life daily forces an approach to death but I am not dying like my father.
Beggar: And how is he dying?
Lawyer: With great pain.
Beggar: To kill him is to remove great pain. To not kill him is to prolong great
pain. Men will not allow you to kill him. We have offered another more loving hand that can kill him. A Man will give his own life to remove great pain. Men will not. Tell us, lawyer, what has death to do with that?
Executioner: But it is his death! Our father's death! What of our pain in his death?
Beggar: Death is a door in life's room. We depart through death. But death breeds no shadow upon what dwells in this room. Not even upon those who huddle, whisper, cringe from the door; it is only their trembling of lids that is the trickery of a winged death shadowy upon their soul. And lash for lash the strike of guilt or sin or remorse. Because they will not see or hear or rise.
Do not hate death for its end of life but rather beg forgiveness of death for the horrors, unmercies, terror your have laid wrongly upon its gentle sill.
If you do not believe me, ask the father. Ask him of death, of death of a father, of a law, of his son's fear.
What do you fear from a father's death? If you kill the father and the law of fathers, you will have his sons to embrace and their sons. And the First Law of Sons.
If you will not kill the father you remain as the father. In a tortured place between life and death. The father yearns the rend of a fighting cocoon that his metamorphosis may unfold. Who are we as worms, as the pace of inches to judge or condemn his spectacle of flight?
For to hesitate upon the