The words echo down the streets in blasts like doom-heralding klaxons. ‘…Fear thee not the hand of the Maker have thee and the power of the first fruit lies in thee…’
On and on it drones in staccato. The people, cloaked and covered, shuffle through the dusty avenues with the tall imperial buildings holding the sky by the throat.
‘…Blessed tidings on roiling shores and the Maker sees thee in the current and knows thee in the current and extends His hand for thee to take…’
They splutter and cough. Their bellies are empty as are their hearts. It is only their minds that rove on, ravenous and bitter. That is what the messages try to drown out. To weather away over days and weeks and months. The sharp minds made dull. It is the only threat left to them.
‘…And offer all thy fruits to Him for he is the progenitor of all gifts and the first fruit that is yours now was His before and shall be again…’
Paddy Dobson
7th November 2021