Ode to Men # 1

Then I heard a voice telling me:

“Lorot Son of the Hills, a time will come when sons of men will quake in their boots. They will be afraid of their shadows, they will fear treading on solid grounds, they will fear the rise of the sun, they will fear the golden glow of the sunset, they will shudder at the thought of hearing the cricket sound or the hoot of an owl. These will be scary times.

“For men will avoid the glare of the photojournalist’s camera. Men will be afraid of every news item for it will carry the message of the impending danger, the overhanging calamity. Men will lurk in the shadows of despondency. Men will claw at walls, tear at window curtains, hang on roof beams. They will never know peace. They will be afraid of seeing eye to eye with fellow man. Men will not be men anymore.

“And bestraddled on this landscape of shame, the camouflage will also shroud men in the misery of their sorrow. Flowers will wilt, petals will be chopped off by angered gardeners, footpaths will be dug to leave furrows of muddy water, flowerpots will be axed and scattered on deserted verandahs. Men will walk aimlessly with no sense of direction. They will bear the sorrow of their collective guilt.

“This is all scary! This is all sadness. There is not a ray of beauty, of glimmer of hope!” I protest to the hills.

“Lorot Son of the Hills, scary too are the ways of men. Sadness is what he bears. Look around him. He loots, he plunders, he rapes, he vilifies. He devises the worst schemes against fellow man to reduce him to a lesser being. He sucks the last bits of life, he never promotes it. When he opens his mouth to speak, his stale breath is pungent to fathom and awful to ignore. And as the sun rises in the East, man spoils this morning beauty by pointing compass to the glare. And such a ghastly site it is when the needle pierces the rays of the morning sun. In the evening, instead of delighting in the fading glow, man smirks mocking such golden moment in a weary face bogged down by the baggage of his day. The car hoots dominate his ears devoid of the chirp of birds and the to-whit to-who of the owl.

“Men, Lorot Son of the Hills, no longer carry music in their souls. What they harbor are confusing, discordant  cacophony.  Men have mastered the art of doublespeak or triplespeak and talking from both sides of their mouths. Men have spat on the rich tapestry of what life offers; his spittle have left our stomachs churning. Men have stopped loving with their hearts but only love with their heads. In the critical eyes of men, man has learnt to give plastic smiles, plastic charity, plastic show of goodwill and plastic reputation. But in the secret taverns, man has hidden the lies that can astound nations to reveal the bigger lie of what his life truly is. Once in a while, nature exposes him but not as much as to uncover his whole pretence and fakery.

“This is why this message is scary. This is why it is filled with much sadness and despondency. Go and tell men that the hills have this message for them. Don’t sugar-coat it; don’t apologize; don’t mince your words. Say it to men as you have heard them. Lorot Son of the Hills, go and tell them….”