From here, where?
He was sitting near the Rumour Mill,
Beneath the broken window-sill
The day I saw Truth disappear.
From the Mill the Streets could hear,
“Who was he who bathed in tears?
He who never knew the years
That dragged like chains from ankles bound
From men who could not make a sound.
Who was he who chose to be
The one to say the world is round?”
And from the Streets the Mill was told
“He was vast but growing old.
It was time for him to die
And really, it’s no wonder why:
Out of place behind the mill
He grew old and older still
Until his eyebrows, fat and white
Overtook his precious sight.
When the poor old man went blind
Dementia claimed his rotted mind.
So when he could no longer see
The poor old man just ceased to be.”
“Well it’s good,” replied the Mill,
“That Fate’s divine and precious will
Should be so fortunate that we
Could escape so graciously
As to never know this man
Whose rotten mind devised a plan
To study math and even science,
A man whose only true appliance
Is to show us Truth has lied-
At least in that he was a guide.”
Following this cruel remark
The streets receded to the dark
And growing cold and colder still
Kept warm inside the Rumour Mill.