At post offices and underground railway stations,
We marched.
Outside maze-like corridors or profusely sweating in bed at dawn,
We marched.
On top of Mount Kilimanjaro or buried deep in the snow,
We marched as cacophonies and blank silhouettes.
Insipid beasts dissolving in a puddle of colourless ink,
We marched to our deaths and hovered high above our human form.
We marched, barely escaping the wretched life that ate away at our soul.
We marched until there was nothing left but an unsung ode to a homeland yet to be.
We marched as cowards leading a quiet revolution in which we were the only participants,
Our silence impervious to a thousand prying knives.
We marched ourselves to the spirit realm
And lit a candle for father time,
And sang ourselves oblivious,
Whilst flickering in the vast void of darkness.
We marched ourselves to madness
Until madness betrayed us
And left
To live
A quiet life.