Orations

The sun glowed against a backdrop of blue. Not a single speck of a cloud could be seen from horizon to horizon. The clear blue sky seemed to add a happy note to this occasion. Down upon the cobbled streets this mood dissipated to the daily grind of life. Men shouted and their horses neighed. Shopkeepers bellowed their calls and their goods clanged. Everyone was milling around on these gray stones. There they walked some in bare feet, others in sandals, and a few in boots. The droning noise of the market lifted up to the heavens. More to the point it lifted up to a stone pedestal where a man stood.

Made of the same stone as the grounds the pedestal rose into the air, standing amist the hustle of the market like a wave against a rolling tide. It jutted up above the heads of the tallest horse: it’s shape a wedge against the smooth cobbles of the market placed. It seemed as if some great force had simply pulled the stone up from the ground and tossed it pressing above the heads of onlookers. It watched over this din of activity in grim satisfaction. As the shop keepers called out their goods and the men shouted out their work this stone alone was left unfettered.

Even when the streets had run with blood, the wood stained with the sanguine fluid of revolution, this podium lay unmarred as the life of rivals dripped of its platform. Even when the city was rebuilt in the glorious image of some aspiring architect this platform of stone was left unvarnished as a monument to the past. And even as the grounds themselves seemed to open and the land was shacked in shudders of some earthly deity waking form it’s slumber causing fires to reign once more in this city of wood and stone, this stone was left unmoved and unchared by the chaos around it.

And by the podium stood a man. His youth seemed to mock the podiums hardy back that had endured so many hardships. His bright young eyes and sleek brown hair exposed flush cheeks barley marred from the passage of time. His thin form stood elevated from the mobs below him girded by a flowing white fabric outlined in purple. On his head sat a green halo of leaves, a laurel. And on one long finger attached to a hand elegantly holding up that ceremonious robe, was a single ring which shone a brilliant gold in the morning sun. This man stood there and surveyed the busy scene, watching as he rested his hands on the podiums side and took a deep breath.

With a hushed awe and a silent fear the horses began to quiet. Their hooves stopped their clatter on the stone and their heads stopped their exuberant neighing. The shop keepers halted their calls mid sentence and stood their eyes fixed. The men at works paused the strikes of their hammers and the clamors of their anvils and turned their minds skyward. The first few words pierced the air like a shot each syllable spoken loud and clear. The sound traveled down the heavy streets bouncing of the cobbled stone and reverberating on wooden doors. The market place listened; the man spoke: “Friends, citizens, countrymen.”