They gather close but never dare,
A drifting hush of watchful air,
Where drums ignite the public square—
Yet every pulse meets vacant stare.
The rhythm snaps, a sharpened plea,
A beat that hound's hypocrisy.
The watchers shift uneasily,
Refrain from what they claim to see.
They’ll swoon for moons and gentle rain,
For heartbreaks soft and safely plain,
But whisper power’s crooked chain....
And suddenly their hearts refrain.
So round they ghost, the careful crowd,
Their quiet shuffle like a shroud,
Afraid a truth said clear and loud
Might spike them in the milling cloud.
Still, drums advance with iron glide,
A cadence cutting through their pride:
“Your silence is the safer side—
A refuge where the faint abide.”
Let timid hearts keep shadows tight,
Let hush defend their fragile plight;
The brave will dance into the night,
And shout the truths that spark the fight.
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