The Last Eulogy

By Aria Raina

“A rather buzzing town it is, for one that thrives not on intelligence but this fickle thing called luck”, so believed the priest who was convinced of a theory that the deaf would turn blind too, in a community so unknowledgeable. “Sheer nonsense! Over a million words in this language we speak, out of which they poorly utter an odd set. May someone enlighten this so called prophet that fails to keep up with centuries old rituals that don’t quite close the book?”, the priest mumbled and grumbled under his bristling, taut breath. He barred his way through maids and dames, noblemen and commons, and the only thing standing in his way was time and distance.

A comedian in his foolish form stood on the podium — extremely insignificant and unthreatening. The expression on the priest’s face and his valiant walk quickly parted the crowd, signalling the comedian to take a step down. He stomped his foot, each step leaving muddy impressions of his worn out shoes. Yet they were certainly neither the star nor focus of the moment. His black coat and trimmed beard set all the command that he would require, to earn the ears of a gathering of mindless acolytes. The priest, tall and sure, cleared his throat and began to make a comment.

This ground shall turn to ash,

And both guilty and proud flesh to bare bone.

Wrongly you think, if you think this land is immortal.

There will be a final, violent hush, and all of you will turn to dust.

They are coming for us; they are coming for us — the unknown.

All that is known is that they are inevitably fatal, and we are destined.

Destined for a sink full of dishes that we will not go home to,

A confession that couldn’t be made on time,

Just as the ink could tattoo the paper.

It will dry, just like the way the rivers will —

The River of Indus and the River of Nile.

For the clock has now lost all it’s sense of ticks;

All it plays are tricks.

Romance and politics called a few wars, or more.

A jest it will be, and you the jester.

Nobility and fraud will be worthless,

For whatever lied in the pennies and lies.

We fabricated — torn shreds,

Stitched so-called facts and potential.

And it will all burn,

And you will watch it happen before your eyes,

In awe and in shock, in pain and in fear.

And before you remember to take it all in

You will have no closure and no conclusion.

Rocks will return to their mineral state;

Each piece of art and science will be forgotten,

And none of it will find a proper grave.

It will fool you and talk in riddles,

When you’re watching the apocalypse from heaven.

And just like that, my friends,

We will be born again.

With an unfamiliar face and a mind not our own.

A fine gentleman will discover chivalry and profit,

Swim across the Pacific to impress his beloved,

Make deals and amends, then tighten his tie,

Showing off his self.

A guilty man will tremble,

As the judge will let his guard down.

An invisible, experienced figure will say,

“Humility is what they call it”

And chuckle for what it’s worth.

The painter will stroke his brush such

That he will create a sky of his imagination,

As red mixes into blue,

And purple finds its way in his image of dawn.

My fellow comrades, the meaning I wish for you to make is,

This life we lead is an illusion of reality

Into a meaninglessly meaningful montage.

You may find me lunatic, you may find me sick,

But in the knowledge I behold and the status you have given me,

I plead you to believe this place I visited in my dreams,

Where I learned the truth and solved the mysteries.

The priest observed the expression on everybody’s faces, sighed and took another hold of the microphone before putting it back down. He looked out once more, expecting an answer from the crowd or from above. But none came. Only the echo of his said words.

By Aria Raina