January 26, 2005
They called you foul, yet your song was as sweet to me as the morning lark. They called you a resource, but more human than the most sensitive mother you were, understanding innately the moods of those around you, so distant in species. They said that you were stupid, unable to exhibit 'higher functions', yet you behaved as if you had some intrinsic understanding of another creature's mood. Altruism? I don't know how that extends to a creature that crossed a busy main road not once but four times to return to the doorstep, croaking your hellos, even though there was no certainty that I would not return you to your owners. Yet come back you did, & banter with me in a most un-henlike manner as you bustled in every night at exactly 6:00pm, & woke me with your song at exactly 6:30am. At no other time did you utter a sound, except to greet me with a particular chuckle when I came outside, to alert me where you were. Perky, energetic, you followed me when I weeded the garden, never in the way, merely watching carefully & waiting til I moved on to scratch in the loose soil, grabbing grubs & beloved grasshoppers with delighted chuckles. Coming in every night you cocked your head, regarded me with beautiful black eye & sang "Gaawk!" to mimic human speech. You were not stupid. But I was stupid. I knew there was something wrong when you grew quiet. I knew there was something wrong when your comb fell to one side, discoloured. But I ignored it, full of myself & my ego, preaching how life should be lived, how compassion should rule all. And all the while I ignored the humble little being that sat at my feet in its hour of need. And tonight, as the flames licked your flesh, I knew that I was a fool. As I wept for such a simple creature, I knew how much of an hypocrite I was. Despite my loud calls, my exhortations to peace, I failed to even trust my own inner voice when a simple being so close to me was sick, until too late. I am a fool. My words are but lies, folly. If I cannot listen to my intuition to save a mere bird, what they call a foul but which to me is sweet, then I am not worthy to judge anyone. Except myself. I turned my back on you, & tonight as the flames licked your lifeless flesh, I knew that Nostrildamus the Arrogant was dead, just like the small red bird was dead, killed by his own ego. How could he judge another when he could not even see the illness of the smallest one at his feet? What a mighty fool. What a monster. What an egotist. And so, tonight, Nostrildamus is dead. The one who speaks thru' him will post again, but that voice is gone, hopefully stilled in its arrogance, its haughty superiority. He who made proclamation on how others should live their lives in peace could not even take note of the suffering of a simple animal that gave his life joy, until too late. Until it had suffered too long. What a bastard. What an insensitive dolt. What a monster. If you cannot practice what you preach, with even the lowliest of beasts, then what are you but a mouthpiece for hypocrisy? I have failed, yet again, the test. I cannot be what I wish to be. All I can be is a demagogue; a mouth loudly taught, shouting, saying nothing. Only two hold me here, without them, I'd spare you all my worthless bullshit. Goodnight.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke, trans Stephen Mitchell