In this moment can be heard the lamentations of the orphaned. The incessant wailing of the meek, destitute widows who, against their will, demand pity in their cries. The final shrieks of the countless poor souls, taken up from this world in an infinite number of horrific catastrophes of misery, their calls echoed and multiplied, each one followed by a thousand others in their wake. The explosions, as large drums, form a rhythm of growing tempo, with each blast launching the plenary limbs of the unfortunate into the air, fountains of flesh rising from the densely packed ensemble. These sounds converge and form the growing symphony of suffering.
In this moment are heard a thousand voices and in the next moment this number is multiplied. Tens, then hundreds of thousands all sing together. The chorus grows to millions, and soon billions. Tenors crucified, sopranos flayed, baritones burned alive, their martyrdom forming a solemn melody. Before long, we may all be singing in the symphony of suffering.
In this moment, as the world, in solemn horror, watches the chorus grow, there are those who rejoice. They hear the concert and take cruel joy in its music. Their guffaws and chortling seem to grow in intensity as suffering grows, in the coming moments developing into a hysterical howling. From their seats in the audience grows a nauseating cacophony.
In this moment, they think themselves to be removed from the miserable condition. Perhaps they take pleasure in observing the misery of others. Perhaps they themselves have some role in this growing misery. This laughing will soon cease, as they will soon realize that they will be amongst the most miserable, that the misery they witness may return tenfold upon themselves, and that which they have caused returned a hundred times. In due time, their cries will be heard loudest amongst the chorus.
In this moment, until their debt of misery is paid, their laughter may multiply the pain. Their glee increases the sensitivity to the suffering, intensifies the unbearable pain of souls already pained. And in retribution all the poor chorus can do is increase their cries, with greater volume and increasing vibrato, until their bel canto is all that can be heard.
And in the coming moment in which the chorus subsumes us all, the moment in which we find every poor soul singing in concert, commiserating in perfect harmony, will God finally hear our song, and look down upon us in pity? Will God be so moved by our song that He, in His infinite mercy, will finally let the curtains down, drawing mankind’s tragic opera to a close? Will there finally be that serene silence, in which one can finally reflect on what was? Oh, what horror there was!
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