Endless Circles Warrior princes gather around the table they take their places eyes sweeping the faces, saying little as they sip bitter coffees, brush fresh crumbs off laps, chased by texts on flashing phones, wiping crumpled brows - unlike their clothes. “I am concerned.” whispered one prince, “these dire reports reveal too much.” The tone is set a call made to plan a way ahead, create a wave - at a politic time - alleviate suffering in the land. Each prince of post-modern times, renown warrior of words, grouped around their executive lord, show their polite face groomed to hide much, speak as if nothing to hide, senses switched off to mercy’s cry: “The groan, scream and misery inchoate cries of pain, people trapped each with family names, numbed by endless days of shattered hopes, who wait for new dawns day - see who survives.” Princes come to be unspoken, dread any challenge against their name's glory - scheme to protect cherished borders; It is highly unacceptable to wade in, unsettle the norm. Grind slow, let things be ground down. Instead they watch their peers with eagle eyes, when pushed they talk of different paths, yet with bated breath await the moment, ambush alternate ways with silken words - squalid reason from a calloused heart. These sly princes plot to give no ground. They conclude by consensus, jointly decide to act: Re-launch the status quo, rebirth misery by another name, agree more evidence is a must - performance measures form like dust. Counter clockwise endlessly they plod, amnesia strikes after every new plot. Yet this willful crime is not beyond redress: Restorative Grace commands, "Hear misery's cry, to its tears be not deaf, follow me, reclaim mercy’s lost ground." © Craig A Roberts, 2022
A poetic insight from Slow Wisdom - A Forgotten Virtue
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