Seven Samurai

Seven Samurai ★★★★

Earth uprooted, guttural cries upon death’s threshold —twisting into laughter, hysteria. A sensory exaltation. This is the consequence of hunger - if the hoarse moans, the racking sobs, the wild laughter, seem farcical, it is because the mind has been possessed by another: it is hunger’s brittle clutch which governs the body now. 

The unfed souls consume hysteria as sustenance. Hands scrabble at the earth, rain chokes out a morbid chant, death becomes acutely tangible, its metallic toll rattling the air. The blind monk plucks out a trilling melody which is hauntingly familiar - he’s blind, you fool! - voices are raised, scuffles break out, bloodshed ordained to recur.  

These are men governed by constant yearning and constant fearing. They fear everything...wind, rain and tempest —and in the absence of sustenance, they latch instead to their pride, their honour and dignity. 

Birds of the night invade the silence. Minds are poised for blood. Children throng, laughter chimes, a current of madness devours all. 

Reflections smear upon the water. A child cradled within trembling arms. This child is me! Violence is cyclical. A woman walks into flames—the apostle of self-destruction. Earth is sodden with the wet, lashing rain— bodies fall limp, bones nestle beneath the ground. Where are the bandits!— insensate yearning for vengeance, no blood left to shed, tortured sobs wrack the body instead. 
We’ve survived once more—we’ve lost once more. Victory, survival, defeat, loss of life and loss of honour —the fruits of war are never clear, and where blood spills, they are rotten at the core. But perhaps pacifism is a luxury when starvation threatens—all that remains is the lure of radicalism, or death’s brittle embrace.

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