The Fool is Free

Men stand around, stiff as statues.

They each hold a job title, assigned to them when they were young boys. It brings them many a penny, and puffs them with prestige.

They have never, not even for a moment, considered trying to change it. They have their place, and they stay within it.

Enter the fool, tripping as he comes, stumbling into the center of the court. Ignoring the points and laughs, he begins his performance.

The fool starts by juggling, struggling and fumbling.

Then he does a dance, but fails to entrance.

His next trick—a song—falls flat too, and the chorus of laughter erupts anew.

Finally, the fool finds his footing.

It turns out he is a master of bees; a pied piper who puppeteers swarms till their honey flows enough to fill the seas.

The people are silent, staring, wishing, wondering, dreaming, doing all but trying.

They are never willing, not even for a moment, to look the fool. They all look away to hide their inward sighs, saved of shame but damned with regret.

On their deathbeds, as they shut their eyes, they finally see:

Only the fool is free.