Twelve plagues are decreed unto the King, twelve plagues upon the Executor of Fates—whose vacant eyes behold the afflicted yet turn not to the perpetrator, whose hollow words fall upon the insulted yet bring no succour, whose idle hands dismiss the malefactor, whose impious self absolves the sin. Woe unto the viceroy who lays the burden of justice upon the shoulders of the injured! Shamash howls against his crown; Ninlil weeps for his demise; Adad advances upon him like a tidal wave. Sin gazes upon him through the black sockets with wrath, his countenance aflame with righteous fury. The equilibrium of the world is shattered, for the King prevents not the crime, nor shields his people from the onslaught of calamity. Not he who hath been robbed must reckon every crumb, that his poor, wronged being may drag out his days until the coming harvest—it is the robber who must pay in blood and in sweat. Sin! There is no blacker sin upon this earth than to lay upon the shoulders of the sufferer an eternal debt unto his very murderer! Woe! Woe! Fly, thou long-suffering folk, for it is not over thee that Sin passeth his judgement. Woe unto the King who himself hath become a villain in the eyes of the gods!
O people, twelve plagues are appointed unto thy sovereign—therefore cast off the impious one and flee to safety. Save, O people, your immortal souls!
The balance of heaven and earth demands atonement, and the throne that fails its sacred trust shall tremble beneath the weight of celestial judgment.
COMING SOON!