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And the fourth trumpet sounded.
“Will we ever be free? Will we ever be free from the happiness of slaves?”
sighed the serpent to me with heaving melancholy, holding the slender disk to the firelight, fingertips smoldering and ghastly. On one of its two painted faces, I saw the likeness of a human being.
Turning this towards the earth, I espied the portrait of a wretched cage and, with the threads between his
fingers, the disk began to spin.
Therefrom the illusion begins.
“Through persistence of vision, reality is hidden.
“Behold the thaumatrope - witness its subtle means of control, its warning falls on the dead and the blind and the dumb.”
Will we ever be free from the apathy of slaves?

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The Burial Tree (II)

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