The Ancient Modern
Lear / Joshua Alan Sturgill
I am a foolish fond old man.
I am old and foolish now, but when
I met my father, bleeding, I became
his eyes. The oldest hath borne most;
thus, how best may we compare
Age with Responsibility? Or what
do they owe, each the other? Bond
is cracked ‘twixt fathers and sons.
Young should be humble; old
should be wise. What is Law, if not
these truths written in our blood,
in late eclipses of the Sun and Moon?
No one stands to welcome me to Age.
Nor no Youth comes when I am old
to ask, what does it mean to rule?
How best may I confront the storm?
I have an answer. I hold, but
cannot apprehend. I lost my eyes
to see it. Lost, too, my sanity twice:
once in leaving, once to gain return.
Enter with Attendant and Fool.
Enter disguised as a Madman.
Enter with colors and drums.
Enter fantastically
adorned with wildflowers
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