Portraits Of Stockhausen No.2

Now colors drain out of the world and morning mist no longer gently drips down the stems of flowers to moisten the soil. The soil itself has been crushed to powder, the winds have scattered its traces and the hard ground has become a vast field of dead or dying warriors, desolate fields, multiplying as battles rage without truces or victory celebrations across the whole region. I see you at the head if your cavalry, a man only in name, a heavily armored ghost, whose very arrival on a battlefield is death to lesser warriors and a final test of the prowess of your greatest enemies, who rejoice to match you sword to sword, or lance to lance. For the bloody glory of death in battle is the only glory left in this kingdom of death and despair. Twenty-five thousand warriors lie scattered on this battlefield. What does it matter which side they fought on? They all lived for you, they all died for you. There is nothing left of life in this world but the time between preparing for battle and dying in battle. All hail, the Conqueror, Our Ideal Man! But on this afternoon of yet another victory, there is the odor of defeat, not their defeat, YOUR DEFEAT. You dismount and move clumsily in your heavy armor. Your horse senses a betrayal, it rears up and neighs fiercely, then flings itself over the abyss. You know what this means: you begin to disarm. You toss your helmet to the ground, your breast plates clank as they hit the hard ground. All of it falls from your person: Your chain mail, your leather apron, your gold silk tunic, your coarse wool undergarments. You stand before your army in nakedness, no trace of glory as the wind swirls dust over your flesh. Nothing protects you from your own disgust, nothing is there at all, just a mere man, naked, naked. Some of your most trusted followers are shocked into paralysis, others are shamed into humiliation, some are fierce with clenched anger. A few dismount, they try to cover your nakedness, to no avail. You raise your arms, no longer disguised in armor, and shout in a hoarse, strangled voice: Soldiers, drop your weapons. In my dread name, I command you to surrender your arms to earth. There was a long pause, silent, austere as the sun dimmed to near darkness. Then the sound of thirty-five thousand pointed weapons hitting was shocking to both those who loved and those who feared him. There was no middle ground. His kingdom was broken. Then a miraculous moment! Something stirred in his soul and awoke to its full consciousness: Soldiers, from this day forth, you are no longer soldiers, you are citizens. There will be no more men killing men, no more widows grieving their loss, no more sons without fathers, planing their revenge. From this day forth, the sword will not confer glory. Peace will be our cry, Mercy will be our habit, Life will be our goal... He fell silent, his soldiers wrapped him in plain blankets, and he seemed spent and voiceless. A gentle rain began to fall, almost a mist. He rallied himself, and in a loud, clear voice of command he shouted, Look up into the sky, my citizens, the gods themselves are sending their blessings on our new world!