Tomorrow . . .




PART SEVEN

It is dark here in the forest. The leaves
rustle over our head, black against the last
gold of the sky. The moss is soft and warm.
We shall sleep on this moss for many nights,
till the beasts of the forest come to
tear our body. We have no bed now, save
the moss, and no future, save the beasts.

We are old now, yet we were young this
morning, when we carried our glass box
through the streets of the City to the Home
of the Scholars. No men stopped us, for
there were none about from the Palace of
Corrective Detention, and the others knew
nothing. No men stopped us at the gate.
We walked through empty passages and
into the great hall where the World Council
of Scholars sat in solemn meeting.

We saw nothing as we entered, save the
sky in the great windows, blue and glowing.
Then we saw the Scholars who sat around
a long table; they were as shapeless clouds