The shadow of the left is slowly stretching over us, like a shroud being pulled over our eyes. The light of day that was our constitutional republic is fading, as we stare into the golden zenith. We hear the voices behind us, all around us, everywhere at once. We hear murmuring, angry taunting and sporadic cheers.
You stand there helpless, hands bound, with your breath pushing up into the shroud, returning less oxygen with every breath. It is suffocating in the July heat. You feel dizzy and faintly nauseous.
There is a moment of confusion, and then clarity.
The hammer falls. Fate is suspended in the balance and the blood rushes to your head. There is a flood of thought, memories, dim recollections intermixed in a spasm of pain and hope. You feel lighter than air, dazed, wondering what will happen next. You don’t know how you got here; the experience is surreal.
An image springs to life. Thousands of men in colonial attire are congregated in an old meeting house. You hear quarreling and infighting. It is dark, with a fire shedding warm light on an oaken hall. There is the smell of roasting acorns, musty clothes and wood. A man with sandy brown hair and a crimson buttoned-down vest sets down a pitcher of ale and rises before the crowd. There is a demand for quiet and order. “This meeting can do nothing further to save the country,” begins a booming voice…
Another image flashes before your eyes. Men dressed as Mohawk Indians with red painted cheeks and feather-banded arms march with torches towards a ship brandishing the Union Jack. They board the ship and scavenge the decks and the galley. They seize large chests, two men at a time, and begin tossing them overboard, into the boundless ocean’s waiting mouth.
A flash. Soldiers on the march. There are red coats and sharp bayonets. They are assembled before a large field. The noon-day sun is bearing down like the eye of God, burning the eyes and searing the mind. The general, astride a black mare is ready to dictate the terms for surrender.
All of a sudden, a shot rings out as men pour in from the woods from all directions. There is the cry of “Freedom!” and the men in red coats are overwhelmed. They are unprepared for a spirited, spontaneous resistance from such “uncultured” upstarts…
It is dark now. A cold night. Men are shivering, their bare feet exposed as they sit huddled in threes before flickering embers. Their backs are turned to the darkness, the forest casting a hush upon the ragged soldiers. Their eyes light up as a horse marches through the camp. They grab their muskets and are on the move. Makeshift boats are cast into the water and the men slowly make their way across a river that shines blacker than ink…
The country hangs in mid-air, dangling before a watchful world. The numbness of death awaits the nation of your father and your father’s father. The social fascists are murdering our land of liberty. America is kicking wildly and gasping for air. Will you cut her down?
Will anybody cut her down?