Tell Me


THE TRAVELLER (NARRATION):

Later that afternoon, whilst returning from one of my explorations, I met the girl I’d rescued. I was much surprised when she received me with cries of delight and presented me with several beautiful white flowers — evidently picked for me and me alone. Perhaps empathy had not left the world afterall.

THE TRAVELLER:

Oh, there’s no need to thank me.

THE TRAVELLER (NARRATION):

This was the beginning of a friendship between us and over the coming days we learned to understand one another.

THE TRAVELLER:

What’s your name?

WEENA:

Weena.

THE TRAVELLER:

Wee–nah…?

THE TRAVELLER (NARRATION):

I didn’t know what that meant, but somehow it seemed appropriate enough.

Weena tugged at my jacket leading me towards the palace-like building where growing crowds of her kind were gathering near the yawning, shadowy entrances. As we approached we were swept along with them, through one of the huge doorways and into the hall. There were, perhaps, a couple of hundred people in the vast space, most of them already seated before the polished stone tables — the same tables I’d seen before, but now there were large heaps of exotic fruits upon them.

THE TRAVELLER:

Tell me Weena, where is does this fruit come from? How is it brought here?

WEENA:

I don’t know.

THE TRAVELLER (NARRATION):

This world was a puzzle to me. There were no factories, no railroads or hospitals. I could find no machinery, no appliances of any kind. Yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics.

THE TRAVELLER:

Weena, what about your clothes. Who makes them?

WEENA:

I don’t know.

THE TRAVELLER:

Aren’t you at least curious? Who does all the work?

WEENA:

I don’t know what you mean.

THE TRAVELLER:

Well, then tell me about the older people. Where are they?

WEENA:

Oh, I don’t know.

Your world has changed Are you living the dream? The days burn away Living in a dream Your sapphire eyes Do they know pain? The aluminium skies That never see rain Can you tell me Is there beauty in truth? Now you tell me Is there beauty in you? The machines of joy Has love rusted away? Now broken toys All this moral decay Fluoride dulled minds Can they even care? This plastic paradise Conveyance to nowhere Can you tell me Is there beauty in truth? Now you tell me Is there beauty in you? So dreams burn away And dreams are cheap Wasted on games While rainbows unweave… THE TRAVELLER:

And the sick Weena? Tell me who cares for them?

WEENA:

I don’t know. Please. I don’t want to talk about these things anymore!

THE TRAVELLER (NARRATION):

Weena burst into tears and I abruptly ceased questioning her. This child of the future could explain nothing of the workings of this unknown and increasingly puzzling world. Nor could she tell me who might have taken the Time Machine. Still more disturbing: there were no sick or aged among these people? I felt I was missing some significant, vital clue…

Side: 2 Track: 2 Duration: 9.00 Mood: BPM: Key: Status: Not completed.

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