Analysis of Epilogue

(THE GRAVEYARD OF SPOON RIVER. TWO VOICES ARE HEARD BEHIND A SCREEN DECORATED WITH DIABOLICAL AND ANGELIC FIGURES IN VARIOUS ALLEGORICAL RELATIONS. A FAINT LIGHT SHOWS DIMLY THROUGH THE SCREEN AS IF IT WERE WOVEN OF LEAVES, BRANCHES AND SHADOWS.)

A game of checkers?

Well, I don't mind.

I move the Will.

You're playing it blind.

Then here's the Soul.

Checked by the Will.

And Eternal Ill.

I haste for the King row.

Save your breath.

I was moving Life.

You're checked by Death.

Very good, here's Moses.

And here's the Jew.

My next move is Jesus.

St. Paul for you!

Yes, but St. Peter –

You might have foreseen –

You're in the King row --

I'll go back to Athens.

Well, here's the Persian.

All right, the Bible.

Pray now, what version?

I take up Buddha.

It never will work.

From the corner Mahomet.

I move the Turk.

The game is tangled; where are we now?

You're dreaming worlds. I'm in the King row.
Move as you will, if I can't wreck you
I'll thwart you, harry you, rout you, check you.

I'm tired. I'll send for my Son to play.
I think he can beat you finally --

I must preside at the stars' convention.

Very well, my lord, but I beg to mention
I'll give this game my direct attention.

A game indeed! But Truth is my quest.

Beaten, you walk away with a jest.
I strike the table, I scatter the checkers.

(A rattle of a falling table and checkers
flying over a floor.)

Aha! You armies and iron deckers,
Races and states in a cataclysm --
Now for a day of atheism!

(The screen vanishes and BEELZEBUB steps forward carrying a trumpet, which he blows faintly. Immediately LOKI and YOGARINDRA start up from the shadows of night.)

Good evening, Loki!

The same to you!

My greetings, too.

Whence came you, comrade?

From yonder screen.

And what were you doing?

Stirring His spleen.

How did you do it?

I made it rough
In a game of checkers.

I thought I heard the sounds of a battle.

No doubt! I made the checkers rattle,
Turning the table over and strewing
The bits of wood like an army pursuing.

I have a game! Let us make a man.

My net is waiting him, if you can.

And here's my mirror to fool him with --

Mystery, falsehood, creed and myth.

But no one can mold him, friend, but you.

Then to the sport without more ado.

Hurry the work ere it grow to day.

I set me to it. Where is the clay?

(He scrapes the earth with his hands and begins to model.)

Out of the dust,
Out of the slime,
A little rust,
And a little lime.
Muscle and gristle,
Mucin, stone
Brayed with a pestle,
Fat and bone.
Out of the marshes,
Out of the vaults,
Matter crushes
Gas and salts.
What is this you call a mind,
Flitting, drifting, pale and blind,
Soul of the swamp that rides the wind?
Jack-o'-lantern, here you are!
Dream of heaven, pine for a star,
Chase your brothers to and fro,
Back to the swamp at last you'll go.
Hilloo! Hilloo!