O, my dear,
Let me tell you the tale,
Of Phronemachos, his heart pierced by many spades.
He was none like Socrates,
Who faced his fate with bold decrees.
A humble soul, not one to rise,
A quiet man, beneath the skies.
His days were nothing,
But endless like a wheel,
Waking and sleeping,
A cycle he'd feel.
Busy in a world,
Not his to claim,
Yet each night,
The void remained the same.
Each day, he toiled with care,
In a world that seemed unaware.
Yet, at night, he carried a weight in his heart,
Restless, unable to find a place to depart.
On a winter's night,
Phronemachos lay, content and bright.
In his cozy bed, he rested his head,
Thinking how fortunate he was instead,
To have found, at last, the peace he'd sought,
The solace his weary soul had longed for, caught.
Then on the miser's door, came a knock,
A voice, trembling, through the cold did talk.
"Please, kind sir, shelter me for the night,
The winds are cruel, and the frost bites tight."
But Phronemachos, warm in his bed,
Turned his face and shook his head.
"O kind sir, for the love of the Lord,
Grant me shelter, or I shall be no more.
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The frost has seized me, my strength is gone,
Without your mercy, I’ll not see dawn."
But Phronemachos, his anger burning bright,
Shouted back, "You’ve no right!
To interrupt my peace, to beg and plead,
I’ve no care for your frozen need!"
"For the love of the Lord you say,
Where was He, all these days,
When I, too, cried and begged in vain,
In the quiet of my soul, in silent pain?
If there is a Lord, I pray to Him today,
That you, poor wretch, might fade away.
O soul so unworthy, to steal my peace,
May your death be one of suffering, cease!"
"I asked for little, just to stay,
Safe from the cold until the day.
But you call me cursed, wish me gone,
And leave me to face the night alone.
I will die, but hear me true,
Peace will never come to you."
"No kindness on this day,"
He murmured, turning away.
But where could he go,
In a night so cold?
He collapsed by the door,
Curled like a dog on the floor.
"What a poor man is he,
Owner of warm beds and a cold heart.
How cruel is he,
That the Lord shall make him suffer so.
Yet I do pity him, for the mercy he lacks,
May his soul one day learn what it is to give."
"O fate, you merciless devil!
What have I done, to deserve such wrath of thee?
Such a lowly death I die,
Yet I heard death is fair to all."
The night drags on, relentless, cold,
The poor man shivers, his body grown old.
Then through the dark, a figure appeared,
A silhouette on an ox, drawing near.
It was none other than death, he knew,
And with a final breath, his life withdrew.
Then broke the dawn,
A day born anew.
Phronemachos woke, his spirits high,
Only to find the poor man lie—lifeless, cold, beneath the sky.
Shattered lay the heavens,
The sun had lost its glow,
The fires of hell began to grow.
The trees stood silent, still as stone,
As if demanding justice, their presence known.
Even the lifeless rocks seemed to feel,
All gazing at him, their silence surreal.
"There he is,
There is the cruel murderer,
Who had no mercy, even for such a poor soul.
Shall he be burnt in hell,
Shall he be pierced till death,
Shall he live a life full of despair."
"Let just the poor man's curse be his punishment,
Shall he and peace remain strangers.
Shall he live a life devoid of comfort,
Let the curse of the poor dictate his world."
The curse now hung, a shadow vast,
A weight upon his soul to last.
No hymn, no prayer, could make amends,
For peace and he would not be friends.
Thus Phronemachos stood, alone,
With guilt to bear, and seeds he'd sown.