Everywhere there is the call to Action; yet the great mass does not move. It seems frozen in place. Waiting. The crisis, if upon us, seems hollow, distant. When will it come we say, looking at the darkening sky. though we know it to be so, and feel it in our bones we will not believe that it is so; do The Nobles not play at dice before their crackling fire? The wheels appear to turn. Here and there an odd man reads the paper unconcerned by its deceits, the scores are true, and who has murdered whom, the name of the stars might change but they are still luminous, the pipers play a happy tune.
Some might see the shadow of a Man, he has his own name, but he has gone by many in the past, when the fires descend, when there is ruin, more often then not, some say, he leaves death in his wake.--No-one listens to dreamers, do they? Not in this day and age when we have surpassed all that our fathers ever dreamed of...
Prophets are a dime a dozen, poets even cheaper, it's too easy to string together words, to make dire thoughts. I have lived in a cold clime, and the warmer weather suits me just fine, I have no need to worry about old men in fine suits who walk under sunny skies discussing the weather...as yet I do not see the smoke from distant fires, but the merchants are wringing their hands and moping about.--
How is it they have become bedfellows with the politicians? Surely this was not always so? Something is amiss in the cosmos. The world moves too slowly, bodies are ground to a fine powder and sold as fertilizer, grease for the wheels, they say, mumbling of their poverty; yet all is well as they will have saved us once again, some say, by selling the beggared children into slavery for the glory of our bright tomorrows. We will be well and prosper--though the dreamers, and prophets and the poets would not have it so; tinkering with our madness as if all we know is just an illusion, or a bit of paper emblazoned with cartoon saints stabbing themselves.
Still! there is that need, deep down, that something wants to be done, and still the great Machine groans on raping the stripped earth. We die quietly in its path hugging our hoarded wealth; though always in the end we are left with nothing more than our bloated skin.