Sylvanus found in a lonely wood reaches out to the skies and is finally transformed into a tree. With cracked and ancient boughs he becomes still. The sound of wedding music is heard off stage. Enter Stone stage right.

And so our play is ended and all of our players spent. Beloved to his prince’s bed,
Has gone and will remain. The family and friends are sated in his choice,
And all the players dance to wedding song. Save one. Save one who loved,
In quietness.
So dies a goodly man to be reborn to his true purpose, for better he a tree,
To feed the wilding creatures here about, than to submit again to loss. He,
That was neither fair nor foul, but merely man is truth. No drunkard he, nor caught,
In poppies vice like grasp, he did not steal, nor was unkind. He was in essence,
Constance in his word and deed and mind. All this he was, yet it was not enough.
How cruel is man? What cowards are they all? To play upon a lonely heart,
Until such time a brighter treasure captivates their eye? How base? How broken,
Must they be? Ever to look beyond their lover’s shoulder, even as they kiss,
For some new pleasure, some new thrill, to shake their core and fill their need,
To be the one desired. How petty is that soul? How small the man,
Who knowing there was love would pass it by, because it did not meet,
Their schedule or need to be adored immediately, or one quick touch,
A night of passion, or some trinket easily bought and lost when need abates becomes the greater prize?
Stone he is constant, yet he is slowly worn away, by water, be it tears,
Or streams of silence. So too the soul of man erodes, or is cast off,
As being less than worthy to the eye of he that is adored than other men.
Sylvanus, he who once was man. Was constant, never wavering in his mind,
And heart. In face of silence, tributes brought he still and never questioned,
Character of him he loved. Yet now besides this river that he loves, he is,
Transformed from flesh and heart and spirit into wood and leaf. No more,
To listen to the words of those, who claim false love and false endearment,
In their need. Transfixed he now. Transfixed to what he knows. The soil,
That clothes his roots attests to this. That diamond cast off for a cheaper glass,
Must now return to solitude and quiet. Must bear the brunt of bruised heart,
And must now accept that he was never meant for cupid’s dart. That,
Sparkling Teeth inside a mouth that smiles have more worth than a heart, a heart,
That gives all it that it has and never asks for aught in recompense. That,
Beauty that will fade is better than a constant love. That worth is found in moment,
Not in years. That all man can give, is but a part of other’s need to feel,
And once effect has taken is like dog cast out into the world to scavenge.
Most cruel, most base of users, yet you are still adored and found most worthy,
The heart most constant still does crave your touch that you deny,
Hangs on for pretty word to give it hope, though hope not come.
Though all you ask is tribute still that heart would give. “O, thou,
Thou must come to me and lay thyself at my feet,” so you say. “Must beggar,
And dispose of all you have to prove your worth for some slim chance of happiness,
Whilst I sit still safely in my world.” These are the unspoken words. These,
The demands laid out for hope of love. Yet gladly would your Sylvanus pay,
Such price in hope of love returned and future bright.
He will not love again. Five times, five acts, has he played out, each time,
To find the user came to him, courted, encouraged, begged for love, then,
Threw it far away when better things were glimpsed. Sylvanus now is wood,
Not flesh. He is become as nothing yet he still, sings the song of the forest,
And the field. The song of life though he is distant from it now.
Five times his heart was broken, five the times that men used him to find their worth,
Five times he bled and wept when silence was reward for all he risked.
Five times he stood upon the brink, and now he walks into the forest dark,
No more to give or to receive but be alone with his own hurts.
Rest well kind spirit of the woods. Rest in your old age now your youth is robbed,
By needs of others. Know that in passing from this realm of men,
You are transmuted into being that cannot be hurt. Your pain is ended,
Now you are reborn.
How base is man? What cowards do they make? When they that seek for worth,
Do break another heart? This I take, memorial of all you gave.(picks an apple).
Though all your gifts and all your worth, were not enough for men to love,
Still will I choose to take your gifts. To take and plant within the barren soil,
The seeds you died to give. That other men on looking to your legacy,
Will choose a path less hurtful to their love. May you now know,
Some little peace in silent, quiet form. Aho.

Exaunt Stone.



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