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Grieve

  1. It is a strange thing to grieve for. A herd of like-minded people. A vehicle for pursuing, seeking, maintaining political power and domination. A collective of similarly-faced, similarly-named, similarly-garbed humanity, named and marked and made intelligible with insignia and flag and song and creed. 
  2. But also a community of people who understand one another. Who band together to yoke the human powers of a young nation, its sinews and hopes and grit, into sprawling roads and gleaming spires. 
  3. “Keramat”. Hallowed. Noble. Dignified. A rather pompous word to describe a seething mass of ambition and belief and camaraderie and struggle. But deeply felt. More than just a name on a card or an official form. Not merely an annual general meeting of the believers and the strivers and the schemers. A movement. A people within a people. 
  4. To remember a glorious past. Demonstration. Mobilisation. Negotiation.  Declamation. A young people claiming their right to exist. To govern themselves. To give deed to promises made. To forge a nation out of the disparate and messy strands of migration and immigration – the grime of lives made and remade. Deeds now hallowed in history books.
  5. Deeds now made into shallow and mocking echos, mouthed by a mongrel mob. Thin and hollow and blasted – these are the calling cards of an army of pygmies, claiming the mantle of past glories with which to cloak their cowardice. 
  6. The emperor is clothed in lies and deceit and self-deception, but the imperium marches on, wilfully blind and mute and dumb. Ever onwards, ever loyal, ever grieving.