The dullest chorus seldom lacks for volume.
It misunderstands resonance for reason,
and calls its own echo wisdom.
There is an archaic arithmetic to crowds:
every surrendered thought
multiplies another certainty.
Judgement is not accumulated there;
it is diluted,
till conviction floats
like froth upon indifferent ale.
Thus the phony prophet
rarely arrives alone.
He is escorted by ovation,
his deficiencies lacquered
with borrowed thunder.
Hullabaloo is the oldest tailor;
it can cut a king’s silhouette
for any passing fool.
The worthier soul
is often espied in the pause—
where scepticism keeps its lantern lit,
where conscience declines
the convenience of belonging.
Fact has unfailingly possessed
the unfortunate habit
of speaking below applause.
History, that parsimonious accountant,
sooner or later closes the register.
It does not total cheers.
It audits consequences.
There are seasons when the young
be bequeathed not prosperity,
but questions.
They discover that hereditary slogans
cannot mend an empty table,
nor can sanctified quarrels
repair a fractured republic.
Then comes the quieter revolution:
not of muskets,
but of memory returning.
The banners that once separated neighbour from neighbour
begin to fray,
for hunger has no denomination,
and unemployment kneels
in front of no altar.
The mastermind of perpetual division
always boobs fatigue for loyalty.
He forgets that generations
who inherit ashes instead of futures
eventually cease applauding the pyre.
They ask not who prayed where,
but who built nothing
while demanding endless devotion.
So mistrust the square
that erupts ahead of what it reflects.
An undiscriminating multitude
has never hardly celebrated error;
it has enthroned it,
then mistaken its own genuflection
for proof that greatness stood before them.
For the loudest acclaim
is scarcely the sound of discernment.
More commonly,
it is intelligence departing the room
in perfect unison,
extolling the wrong
until silence accedes the truth.
