With wealth and certainty the people were ruled in that great city at the edge of the bay. Flush with luxury and lazy hands, they would speak with joy on behalf of their servants and those once known as folk who toiled so all could have.
They saw themselves as wise as their gave away their lives to empty pursuits of vanity and moral duty to be all other’s voice, whether others would will it or no.
As goods came to their city, they would race with labored breath to be the first to have and hold something new and unique among them.
For theirs was not a place of substance. The hands which broke and laid stone, the bodies which sweat and bled to build all they had were all forgotten. What was there was, to them, not earned but a right of being born, something to which all could and should lay claim.
Yet what lay in their homes was to be coveted but friend and foe alike, their place alone reserved as something no other could take. Until one day something new and unique was brought. Weapons from those who tired of hearing another’s voice as their own, or simply to conquer what was there to be taken.
The feasts would come for those who conquered by action and not by coin. Long live the new rulers of that place, may the shame before be forgotten.
For I never knew they would destroy themselves so utterly by their own hand. Then again, I never cared.
A prompt response.