The last speech was given by a child. Imagine him, if you will, in rags, or ill fitted clothes that might have once looked nice. Their colors have faded, the worn stitches are frayed, but he remembers something of how they once fit him. These are his Sunday best. He knows not of the world before, nor of the world after; only this darkness of tyrants. He stands by the filled in graves, wondering at the speeches. Try as he might, he cannot understand how those mangled things he’d seen could be anything but demons, the dark demons of nightmares.
He stands quietly by their graves, and shivers when the wind passes.
“My father has no grave,” he says, balling his little hands into fists. “Nobody cried but me. I hope no one cries for you.”
Tale Told 