“Shadows. Shadows of a race gone past. Shadows of men tilling out on the field. Shadows from the dawn of time, shadows from the inception of age, shadows; so dark, so deep; they almost dissolve the essence of your soul. Imperfect. These shadows are imperfect. They bear a faint resemblance to the true picture but they cannot be the true picture. Oh! These shadows will destroy them. They will destroy us. We are lingering on the outskirts of a battlefield. We have forgotten what the true picture looks like. Blank. Devoid of the true hues of life. Devoid of the rosy glow that adorns the face of a flower blooming alone, surrounded by the bulbuls who love its immaculate and immutable beauty. These shadows are going to destruct the fabric which, intricately knotted, forms the essence of our souls. Oh my comrades! Hearken to me! Break these vile bonds that you wear. The night of despair must be brought to an end. Break the chains that bind your minds. Free yourself from the fetters of darkness. The age of ignorance must be brought to an end. Can you not perceive? Are you blinded by the ignorance that enshrouds your minds? The shadows are…”
Death loomed nearer for Socrates, but the potbellied, age-old philosopher kept on ranting. Praying, pleading, crying, begging the people to listen to him one last time. The cymbals struck up the solemn note that announces the passing of another person into the void. Boom. A sonorous thunder drowned out every other noise. Boom. Another beat, and then someone in the crowds began to keen. The mourning coerced Socrates to turn around. Raising a hand in farewell, he addressed the young man before him,”Fare they well, dearest disciple! Just the last of our lessons before we part. Hear and hear well, for the way of a warrior is the way of knowing, and you are to feature in great battles. Great battles that have been fought before and will be fought in the future. Know, in the long hours of despair, in the brief moments of joy, at the hour when the sun rises and at the hours when the moon claims her throne, that you know nothing. Farewell!”
A thud as the bowl of hemlock fell from his hands. Dangling lopsidedly from the block where he stood, the faintest of smiles embellishing the corner of his lips, Socrates fell and was no more. In the background, a loud wail emanated from the mouth of a mortal. Plato was mourning his loss…