The Fool’s Tragedy

The most wonderful people are those who can make others happy. There’s nothing morally more comforting than trying to make someone laugh. However, when your work becomes your hobby, you lose your hobby to work. When something becomes your job and a professional requirement, You can professionally burn out. To avoid the mental consequences of burnout, You start burning something else. You genuinely start sacrificing your health for laughter, Because, after all, you can live with laughter, but you can only fulfill life with it.

As a fool, you wander the castle’s halls,

Where doors have no keys, no servants, no walls.

No guards or people, they’re never around,

Until you're asked to jest, to make them laugh out loud.

They’re helpful, perhaps, but not meant for your aid,

You’re one of them too, but ignored when you’ve prayed.

Kings sit on thrones while fools stand by,

Those seated demand joy from those who can’t lie.

One steps forth and listens to the king,

Who speaks at length, but clear in meaning:

“Amuse me, for hunger I feel no more,

Amuse me, or my heart will be torn.”

And so it begins, the jester tells jokes,

But meaning is lost—seriousness chokes.

He gestures! He jumps! He dances with zeal,

Strains his muscles, their pain is so real.

The rulers laugh, they struggle for breath,

As laughter consumes, till it brings near death!

It’s funny, they think, as he suffers his fate,

He stands on his head, shouting “Oh, wait!

Without these kings, where would I be free?”

He leaps before them, like a pig in debris.

He acts like an animal, but does it succeed?

The kings weep with laughter, as if souls they’d freed.

The jester is clever, but can’t carry on,

He stops all his prancing—his strength is now gone.

No longer can he leap, just sway side to side,

He halts all his efforts, too tired to stride.

The kings catch their breath, but then glance his way,

And they lost it again, in a wordless display.

Their gaze shows disdain, ungrateful and cold:

“To be a fool so hard? Do you think you’d like gold?”

The jester has heard them, now speaking with care:

“Forgive me, my liege...I feel...I despair...”

His voice frail and weak, it gave little aid,

The king stood up and then called out in rage:

“CAST HIM OUT, GET THAT FOOL OUT THE GATE,

RUN, YOU SCOUNDREL, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!”

The jester ran fast, his legs in full flight,

As if his head might be lost that night.

He shouted aloud, “HELP! I’M THE KING’S NEED!”

He lied, for in this world, no help is decreed.

He nearly escaped from the grand hall,

But lightning struck, and he started to fall!

He turned on his back, his arms raised to shield

The part of him that he wanted healed.

No killing was allowed by royal decree,

So they grabbed his hands and pulled as he screamed.

Dragged to the place where misfortune is sure,

Where immorality is praised as pure.

To the city square, where the king won’t be seen,

The jester was scared, knowing what it would mean.

He felt like a poet losing his kin,

As the flames of his tears burned deep within.

The crowd yelled out, “Theatrum mundi!”

They impaled the fool—the world’s tragedy.