We talked of revolution again this year
as our ancestors once did in years gone by.
The interruption of everything has always been prophesied.
The revolution at first glance will be rejected and denied,
repackaged as propaganda —
shoved down the throats of the clean hearted masses as a lie.
Then one, two, three hundred thousand more times,
until fact bleeds into fiction like a gaslighter blurs lines,
and sour honey becomes the sweetest thing our held tongues recognise,
this moral crisis will remain
until the robots unplug and wipe the sleep from their eyes,
until Africa rejects false idols like white Jesus
and fake missionaries as parasites,
until the distraction of reverse racism is buried alive,
until the light almost fades
and reckless indifference is uprooted from the sidelines,
as burning forests snatch our breaths as we sigh,
until we fall to our knees and atone for foolish pride,
until at long last we decide to free our minds,
we will talk of revolution again as we get drunk and get high,
this time next year we will gather and prophecise,
and once again —
the revolution at first glance will be rejected and denied.