Act I.
The Gravedigger's shovel hits the dirt.
The tip of his blade lingers on the surface;
Here lies the last of the unpierced soil.
He begs for the strength to refuse his work,
To reject his function, to forfeit his design;
He will not dig, he will not defile.
Or so it goes (in his dreams);
And so it has gone (it has gone);
And so it will go (so he will dig).
He casts his eyes
Towards the scorched horizon;
An unearthly lightning splits the sky.
A sick-black angel's breath
Creeps towards the stars;
Its ghostly fingers pull down
A torch of mass-produced fire.
And below its bitter light,
The Gravedigger digs the graves
For all mankind.
Or so it goes (in his dreams);
And so it has gone (it has gone);
And so it will go (so he will dig).
Act II.
He pushes his shovel into the ground.
Around him blare the trumpets of doom.
Blood runs from his hands,
The spade stained red;
Self-hate made manifest;
To find purpose in burying the dead.
"Why?" he cries, "Why end this life?"
"Why bury innocence under an ocean of dirt?"
Behind him sounds a sinister song;
A poisonous whisper;
An answer from the stars.
He turns to face what he knows is there;
She who commands his work;
The many-armed siren; angel of history;
A body of smoke, floating above the ground.
"You have done this!" he declares.
"You have made them this way!
You have made it so!"
"A grotesque ballet;
A play staged by choice.
There is no innocence here;
No purity among men.
Squandered gifts
Turned violence to virtue;
Tools of creation
Repurposed for hate."
Act III.
He stands defiant in the angel's radiant flames.
"The illusion of choice; choices made from a cage.
Have you ever seen anything such as this?
The power, the beauty, the love?
Offer them another chance!
Free the potential buried here by my hands."
"Choice within limits,
As vast as the cosmos.
Chances that outnumber the stars.
Devolution, instead;
Reversion to primitive states.
A desire for blood, the death of compassion;
Their well performed art: the harvest of pain."
"Evolutionary impulse; can you fault them?
Reptilian brain; can they be blamed?"
"There did exist the space
For love instead of hate;
For peace instead of pain;
For empathy and grace.
Some of them knew what all could know;
Most others rejected en masse.
They made their choice to die;
They made their choice to dig."
Act IV.
The air begins to tremble;
The ground begins to crack.
The trumpets crescendo;
A storm through creation;
Swaths of existence
Ripped straight from the Earth.
The angel points to the abyss.
He hangs his head, the last grave left;
A choice and a chance.
He drops his shovel.
His mistakes can never be undone.
The Gravedigger—old, broken, tired,
Lowers himself into the grave,
Closes his eyes,
And takes his final breath.