Death. A term we have all become familiar with in this hellish time. It surrounds us in everyday life, in the year of our Lord, 1348. It would seem that the whole of Europe has come beneath its sway. Everywhere I turn my head, I see people. No, not people. I see walking corpses that shamble about, grasping to any bit of life they can muster. But it is all in vain. Most are dead from before the moment they set foot outside their humble abodes. It is as if the sky itself is dead. All I ever see is rain. Torrential downpours that never cease and continually pelt the living dead. It seems that God has sent this Plague to us to punish us for the sins of the world, and to cleanse it. I recently went on an expedition from the London newspaper, the
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This place was called St. Mary’s Church, and rightfully so. The town had a large graveyard. It was here that I made another shocking revelation. The tombs lay barren of life. What I mean by this is the tombs of old, as ironic as it sounds, made the random passerby gaze upon the countenance of a lord or lady from a bygone age and think “He did earn the name ‘the Handsome’ for a reason” or “She most certainly is ‘the Fair’”. This was achieved when the stonemasons would chisel an image of the deceased onto the sarcophagus in their regal appearance, now it was as if the masters had lost their will to imprint the façade of the dead into the minds of people. Now, the nobles were clothed in peasant rags, instead of their traditional silk and fine cotton. Instead of being preserved forever in time, the half decomposed skeletal remains were laid bare, some within such vile creatures like slugs and snails and parasites still burrowing into them. After a walk around town and finding myself in a kind yeoman’s home, where he had scores of pictures featuring the Danse Macabre. These images were filled with the skeletal making merriment with the …show more content…
As the day progressed, I heard tell of a man who had survived the Plague, from the town of Florence by the name of Boccaccio. I was under the impression that much of Italy had died off after the initial outbreak, but it would seem that a few buboes of life still clung to the surface of Mother Earth. I also heard that he wrote of its horror and how it caused social collapse, sure signs of the Plague on various individuals, and how many people chose to cope with the ferocity of its wrath. I got ahold of his writings, and one line stood out to me against all else: “Brother abandoned brother”. The line spoke volumes to me about how a family could forsake their own just to further their own miserable existence to eke out perhaps a week at best before they succumbed to it as well. My eyes have now been opened by Mr. Boccaccio. He meant for us not be fearful of death that surrounds us. We must walk shoulder to shoulder with it, not as equals, but we would respect each other. It has now come to the end of journey, young compatriot. I hope that this article has stirred some emotion within. I bid thee
This place was called St. Mary’s Church, and rightfully so. The town had a large graveyard. It was here that I made another shocking revelation. The tombs lay barren of life. What I mean by this is the tombs of old, as ironic as it sounds, made the random passerby gaze upon the countenance of a lord or lady from a bygone age and think “He did earn the name ‘the Handsome’ for a reason” or “She most certainly is ‘the Fair’”. This was achieved when the stonemasons would chisel an image of the deceased onto the sarcophagus in their regal appearance, now it was as if the masters had lost their will to imprint the façade of the dead into the minds of people. Now, the nobles were clothed in peasant rags, instead of their traditional silk and fine cotton. Instead of being preserved forever in time, the half decomposed skeletal remains were laid bare, some within such vile creatures like slugs and snails and parasites still burrowing into them. After a walk around town and finding myself in a kind yeoman’s home, where he had scores of pictures featuring the Danse Macabre. These images were filled with the skeletal making merriment with the …show more content…
As the day progressed, I heard tell of a man who had survived the Plague, from the town of Florence by the name of Boccaccio. I was under the impression that much of Italy had died off after the initial outbreak, but it would seem that a few buboes of life still clung to the surface of Mother Earth. I also heard that he wrote of its horror and how it caused social collapse, sure signs of the Plague on various individuals, and how many people chose to cope with the ferocity of its wrath. I got ahold of his writings, and one line stood out to me against all else: “Brother abandoned brother”. The line spoke volumes to me about how a family could forsake their own just to further their own miserable existence to eke out perhaps a week at best before they succumbed to it as well. My eyes have now been opened by Mr. Boccaccio. He meant for us not be fearful of death that surrounds us. We must walk shoulder to shoulder with it, not as equals, but we would respect each other. It has now come to the end of journey, young compatriot. I hope that this article has stirred some emotion within. I bid thee