Power And Cycles

The nobles walk around the king's court, like vultures gathering around the diseased carcass of some long dead animal. Their faces proclaim their self importance, and their clothes proclaim their fake splendour.

The people outside the palace gather once again to protest, raising banners and shouting about the need for food. They shout threats and throw stones at the few guards outside the palace, but do not attack. Yet.

The nobles gather round the king's ancient throne of gold leaf over rotting wood, fawning over the fat monarch, who sat there, greedily glutting himself on whatever foods he wished.

Around the palace, peacocks strut in a stately manner, oblivious to the slow rotting happening inside the very palace where they live.

Three weeks later. The smell of burning drifts across the garden of the now dead king. Screams of once proud couriers puncture the air like needles. Peacocks flap madly, running wildly into the bleak night. It is over.

A year later, and another king lounges on the throne, surrounded by minor courtiers and hangers on. Outside, peasants, nay, the Free People, ponder on the fact that there is still no food. And peacocks once again resume their stately tread.