Got some bad news this morning,
Which in turn, made my day.
When this someone spoke, I listened;
All of a sudden, I had less and less to say.
Oooo how could this be,
All this time, I've lived vicariously.
This morning I walked through the piazza west of the Great Square. People sat on the small fountain dedicated to another of Ar's unsung minor heroes, Vesuvian. They ate bread, they drank Black Wine, their kettle girls washed clothes. In this hour of the day the city begins to rouse from its sleep. Night, is where my kind often find refuge. If I were to say that I am an exception to this, it is only for today assuredly. I too, carry a basket of laundry. As I sit and listen to the gossip of Women, the cries of babes on their hips, and the pontifications of Men who dine at wooden tables around this small residential square, I find myself wondering;
' Whose life is this? '
Who's gonna save my soul now?
Who's gonna save my soul now?
How will my story ever be told now?
How, will my story be told.
My story begins. I was born a twin. On Gor, this is not an unusual occurrence, in fact more times than not, multiple births are the norm. We were born on a plain where the dust rattling through the high golden grass, gave you a name. The wagon's had come to seek harbor from a storm between two craggy hill tops. There, my Arian mother brought us into the world with venom, anger, and thick spite. Then, still bloody, my father held us up to the sky and pronounced us children of a Khan.
The wind howled and whistled when my brother, born first, had cried out. His tiny fists clenched tight in rage at the dying sun. As if, it dared to leave without his permission. 'Jara,' my father had said handing him off to a waiting woman. Ahn's later my mother soaked in sweat and tears, gave me life. My father was said to consider me there in the fire light for a long time. My birth was not a disappointment to him. Unlike men of the Cities, a daughter of the People's was also a fortune.
I was told, upon gazing into my face in the full moons, my father listened to the wind whisper, creep, and raise the hair on his neck.
He named me, Oman; where the sea meets the sky. The event horizon.
Made me fell like somebody;
Like somebody, else.
Although She was imitated often,
Felt like I would be myself.
It is a shame that someone else's song,
Was totally and completely dependant on.
The community stirred around the center and spread out from my position. The people who resided here smiled at me as they passed by. Even the acolytes in their pretentious white garments and shaved heads, offered me their false blessings. I graciously accepted with a humble dip of my veiled chin. The wind sung between the buildings of the Piazza. I heard my name. My head lifted from its humble thanks. Red on White. Blood on cobblestone. Before he could realize it, the man dropped to his knees and looked to my beloved sky. For in the end of every man's life there is nothing greater than the earth beneath your knees and the sky above your head. The realization of this truth must occur to those, who, like this man in White had lost their path and now were shown the way. He gasped. Blood running from his thigh to stain the fabric of the pristine robe. It was then he choked, "Save Me," hands spread wide in rattling apology for a lifetime of wrong doings.
Who's gonna save my soul now?
Who's gonna save my soul now?
I wonder if I will live grow old now
Getting high 'cause I feel so alone now
The blade only had a small stain on its razored edge. It hid neatly in my basket, that, as I rose to scream settled onto my hip. People came from their domiciles with hands covering their mouths in horror. Behind a middle-class veil and beneath a simple robe I was escorted from the scene. Comforted. Consoled. I hurried away to a family, so I told the Men who held me up from fainting. When I turned the corner I rescued my beautiful blade from its hiding place, leaving the laundry on a stoop from where it had been borrowed. I strolled without hurry, into a new persona.
'It was done,' I thought to myself as a bread maker offered me a free taste of his goods. I purchased several rolls, and carried them off in a paper sack towards the haven of the An'bar.
'Blame whom you must,' I had been ordered. And, I had. They would find marked documents from the Central Cylinder hidden in the fallen man's satchel.
I may be just a little selfish;
All I have is the memory.
Did I never start to wonder,
Is it possible, you were hurtin' worse than me?
Still, my hunger turns to greed,
'cause what about what I need?
I waited under a wrought iron lamp post eating my bread, for Basle's arrival. Messenger, Guard, Watchful eye, Knight to the honor of my self-cause; Basle is all of these things to me. Up the winding avenue, I stared at a dead end. Abandoned, or so it would seem. A dirty child came up with his hands held up. I handed him a roll. It was then that I could feel all of my old turmoil's find resolution. With pride I looked down my angular, Arian nose, with pale eyes that were all at once a fearsome and to some a soothant. The child ran off. I saw a dark haired man in a leather tunic stride up to the corner and turn his head over his shoulder. I could assume with his vigilant stare upon me, I was considered an intruder. He walked up the avenue towards the empty tenements and secluded villa. He did not let his eyes break away. Neither did he smile in polite greeting, nor scowl in protest. Watching. Knowing.
An' Oh;
Who's gonna save my soul now?
Who's gonna save my soul now?
Oh I know, I'm out of control now.
Tired enough to lay my old soul down.
" What kept you?", Basle stepped up to me, giving the dark-haired a lifted brow as if possessive of my person. We began to head deeper into the district. Basle tossing his blonde hair on the wind with a shake, glanced towards our audience. Unrelenting I stared up the street at the dark-haired man, who in turn stared right back at me. Unrelenting. I said to Basle, " I went to pray on the steps of the Temple," then I looked up. " Isn't the sky clear today?"
