(Tavern, just after the noon bell, a fire crackling, the barkeep polishing tankards)
Hear ye, hear ye!
Draw near, good folk, and heed the humble bard,
For in the shadow of the Sun King’s throne, a most peculiar tale doth unfold:
‘Tis whispered through the cobblestones and carried by the crows,
That the noble lords, in silks and furs, do gather in the Great Hall,
Their bellies round and voices loud,
To declare the ills of the realm are naught but the doing
Of those with calloused hands and threadbare coats.
“Lo!” cries Lord Gildenpurse, with ring-clad hand upon his goblet,
“These laborers, these hungry wretches—
They gnaw the bones of our fine Kingdom!”
And the Sun King, perched upon his golden seat,
His gaze brighter than the forge at midday,
Does nod and thunder:
“We must tighten the stores, draw the grain from their tables!”
“Let them eat promises and dream of bread!”
A hush falls, broken only by the distant bellies grumbling
(Or mayhap the barkeep’s own, for even he must eat).
The town crier takes his post in the square:
“Henceforth, all those of humble purse must prove their worth!
Let the ledger be checked, the pantry searched—
Too many crusts, and the King’s Men will take your last morsel!”
The crowd mutters—old Maud sighs, young Thom frowns.
“Is it not the nobles who feast at festivals, who spill good wine and burn wheat for sport?”
But the Sun King’s crier shouts again:
“The realm is starved because the poor take too much!”
Yet, in the corners of the inn, the truth is told in quiet jest:
“If gold could be spun from stories, the King would have no need to tax the bread.”
The bards know the rhythm; the minstrels sing the rhyme:
The ones who sweat in fields and stoke the forges
Are not the thieves, but the keepers of the realm.
So gather, friends, and share what little we have—
For it is the folk, not the throne, that keep the fire burning.
And thus the tale goes on, round and round the Sun,
Until one day, perhaps, the bards’ song will rouse the sleepers,
And the village will remember:
A Kingdom’s strength is measured not by the gold in the vault,
But by the bread upon the table, and the laughter in the tavern.
Let the Sun King rage—our hearth will hold.
A Call to the Villagers of the Dreamspace
So let the Sun King and his lords huddle over their ledgers,
Counting crumbs and blaming the hungry for the emptiness of the royal table.
But you, Dreamspace villagers—keepers of the fire,
Lifters of lanterns, bakers of bread, writers of rants—
Gather close!
Share what you can, in story, in song, in spirit and in soup.
If your neighbor’s bowl is empty, pass the ladle.
If their story is heavy, carry it for a while.
If the Sun King’s crier tries to shame you for the bread in your hand,
Smile and break it in two—
For every loaf shared is a little less power for the ones who feast and never thank the cook.
Let us remember,
It is not the throne that feeds the village,
But the village that outlasts the throne.
Raise your voices in the square,
Tell your own tales,
And if you’re feeling bold,
Drop a line below this post:
What’s the real story in your corner of the Dreamspace?
