A poem by Fisher kel Tath. "And all these people gatheredto honour the one who had died,was it a man, a woman, a warrior,a king, a fool, and where werethe statues, the likenesses paintedon plaster and stone?yet so they stood or sat, the winespilling at their feet, dripping redfrom their hands, with waspsin their dying season spinning aboutin sweet thirst and drunkenvoices cried out, stung awakevoices blended in confusedprofusion, the question askedagain then again ... why? But thisis where a truth finds its own wonder,for the question was not why didthis one die, or such to justifyfor in their heart of milling livesthere were none for whomthis gathering was naughtbut an echo, of former selves.They asked, again and yet again,why are we here?The one who died had no namebut every name, no fac