A word, whispered, oft sneered at
A cliché, cloaked in circumstance
A phenomenon, always impending
And yet, it is here, and always was
the beginning unobserved, the end unknowable
A whiff is all we get, of what’s come to stay
For it isn’t change that awaits in the wings
It is us, always us, forever holding our breath
lest we miss the starting gun, not knowing
That there simply isn’t one
 
Never a bang, never a whimper
Just a silent passing through
While all around rage rants and debates
The wardrums beat in ignorance
The battle, everlasting, already lost
Within ourselves, for we act not
Instead choosing to hem and haw
Anything that begins starts elsewhere
Ours is but a supporting part, if at all
We are not protagonists, no Sir, no Ma’am
We are but the chorus, the invisible crowd
Let anyone so willing be the hero today
We shall sing our own songs another day
For now we shall just chant in unison
Whatever is being chanted elsewhere
 
Call the stage what you will
Daub the war in bright blood-red
Or saffron, or iridescent green
Call it politics, call it diplomacy
Oh go on, call it sport
And when you tire of all the farce
Maybe, you’ll call it life
When really, it’s always been change
Loose, wanton change

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