The Beautiful City

Inside the of blessed city, honey drizzled toast would form a wall around sunken pit of exotic fruits. Stems and leaves were left intact to demonstrate freshness. Our fabrics were breathable and synched with expert hands. The babies would be diapered with felt and our fishermen baited their hooks with silk worms. No generation was made to experience isolation. A rhetorical proverb inquiring if an elder could go a day without a cheek kiss was the only introductory virtue. A man could put a talent of gold on the floor before entering the house of his in-laws. After four hours of merriment he could return to it completely unmolest in the exact spot in laid it down. There were no prisons, stocks, or dungeons. Punitive measures could not be elevated to institutional glory. Neither would we suffer any emblem of harm to capture hearts grieved of wickedness. We answered in exile and It was enough. Legend recorded that even flowers would face away from a departing criminal who could no longer abide with us. We regaled our neighbors with the divine origin of our eternal city state. If any strayed from the account, he would be sent to one of our seven libraries that held the chronicles of our beginning. In my zeal, I perhaps overstated the exploits of the heavenly founders. I was made to visit any of the seven that suited me without supervision. My error was one of over much commitment. It was not a whip across my back, but a ribbon around my neck. In my wondering between the forth and fifth library I spotted hut some ways off. A displaced piece of architecture blended in marvelously with the woodlands it bordered. It did not match the ornate splendor of our winding city streets with exquisite etchings. There arose inside of me a fury that such shotty work could remain unreported. So in my great displeasure, I approached straw. Bricks of mud and manure hardened by the sun were repulsive. It is no wonder it was erected at the very edge of our delightful city. Through windows tinted with dust and bird droppings contained wilted light brown boxes full of loosely bound scrolls. The slide lock on the door all but rusted off. It could pluck it like an ear of corn, but it was on the other side of me. I would not put a stone through any of hut's three windows. A strong shoulder was enough to power through it's charade of security. The damp smell was not as bad as I thought. The walls faded with water colors. Though very faint, a theme was illustrated crudely. It seemed like a depiction of a war. This was nothing short of an eight library. The first scroll I touched seemed to instruct on matters of apothecary. Then I opened up a second. It spoke of constables and guards. It did not hold my attention. A third scroll spoke about a peace treaty. My interest began to peek enough to justify breathing in mold spores and shew buzzing agitation a moment longer. Upon opening the forth scroll did I understand we were not who we claimed to be in our songs. I rushed out of the hut with tears in my eyes for what I learned. And I noticed an oddity making my why back to the seven libraries. It was something that would surely number my days in the beautiful city. Every tulip, rose, orchid, and lily all faced away from me.