As Simple As a Musical Phrase

Arthur stands up.

Cough! Cough!

That's not Arthur.

Excuse me, says Baruch Spinoza. Can't stop coughing. It's all this red dust.

And the nuts, says Gaius, sympathetically. Have some water. Wasn't there some in your picnic basket?

It smells of bad fish, says Spinoza. Is there any milk?

No one has any milk.

Arthur feels deep down in the pockets of his shorts. Bandages, scraper.....a bottle!

He opens the bottle.

This used to be milk, he says, tipping the bottle. Now it looks more like cheese. D'you want it?

No, thank you, says Spinoza. Say your poem.

Guerre, says Arthur.

Better give it to us in English, says The VeloDrone. Or Baruch and Gaius won't get it.

War, says Arthur. It's not easy to translate into English.

That seemed quite easy, says David.

No, the rest, says Arthur. But I'll try.

WAR ( recites Arthur)
As a child certain skies defined my perspective: their characters showed in my face.
The Phenomena were roused.
Now, the eternal inflection of moments and the infinity of mathematics
Drives me through this world where I meet civil honours,
Respected by strange children and huge affections.
I dream of a War of right against might, of unlooked-for logic.
It's as simple as a musical phrase.

Arthur sits down.

Very good, says The VeloDrone. What is the musical phrase?

Umm..... says Arthur.

A simple one indeed, says The VeloDrone. Umm.

That wasn't it, says Arthur. I told you it was hard to translate.

Well, I'm very impressed, says David.  The eternal inflection of moments. The infinity of mathematics. Unlooked-for logic. All that.

Anyone would think you'd read Russell, says Gaius. But tell me, who are these strange children? Are they Baby Pierre and his friends?

Arthur says he doesn't think so, since he wrote it before meeting them.

He wonders what Spinoza makes of it.

Cough ! Cough!

Is Spinoza about to say something?