Saint Joan
One more. This is just a rather quick bit i did in response to the play 'Saint Jone' by George Bernard Shaw which recounts the story of the famous Joan of Arc. I would recommend on having some knowledge of her life and death to fully understand what is being said.
Light your fire: do you think I dread it?
And slowly the image of a cross, but a wavering spectre, approached from the far haze of her crying eyes, laden in its heavey mantle of billowing flame and black smoke that threw itself so emphatically in sluggish frenzy that the air itself, charred, was sent into violent ricochet. Yet, the spectre persisted in its presence and though warped and disfigured by the fiery tumult it endeavored as if locked in mortal struggle so that it should through sheer weight of presence alone put down those rebellious sparks in their prickling glow and with a glance more potent than the reptilian basilisk wield its most overwhelming authority upon all around it. So did it cleave such transient curtains, held aloft by a shadowy man, to impress its image to her sundried eyes and she yet standing on her rhetorical stage and gilded burial mound of pitch-soaked straw, bound to her wooden epitaph, lifted her singed head in greeting to the earthly depiction of her divine purpose. Looking closely perhaps with some astonishment she found it, though flush with gold and reflected fire, not nearly the equal to that which, merely constructed of two bound twigs and expending itself in boisterous flame, she now held in her hand.
Compelled in their hunger, the cleansing fires grew in girth to gluttonous proportions and with the energetic resonance of a triumphant beast, driven as if by whip and spur into maddened bloodlust by the scent of the exposed flesh sheathing its fangs, tore in a tempest of saliva and heated blood about their easy prey in mock ceremony. From this most ferocious pyromaniacal surge bellowed forth a new presence that in insidious certainty spread wide its arms across the city in acrid wafts over each cobblestone and through each cracked windowpane until it found its home in every stitch of cloth and grain of dust and with its omnipresence as total as that of the sun forced all those passers-by to clench their nostrils in earnest at its reeking stench. Those present stood apart at a distance and watched with guarded isolation as the figure veiled in the parasitical fire and dark smoke that issued from her body fell upon her tender knees with bowed head and in submission succumbed to the torrent and expelled her soul. Her hands, immolated, no longer bound to the wooden anchor that held her below the shimmering surface of the flame, fell empty. Now unneeded, the lazy fire quickly left as if banished into nothingness by the slight breath of a stronger presence as so many brief candles. Even while those coals remaining but smoldered, the man remained yet holding aloft the cross, now its gold calmed and dulled with ash, the divine depiction of his earthly purpose.
Reply With Quote
Ahaaaaaar
Bookmarks