автор: DianaStefanova

’’Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.’’
William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5

The tale of quiet madness struts along
across the stage of thinking and perception.
It’s all a game – an all too brief deception -
as Life, the idiotic actor, frets…
The storm approaches, gathers fire - strong,
fed by our fears, hatreds and regrets.

The line dividing right from wrong is thinning -
extending flat until the patient dies.
Absurdities, obscenities and lies,
produced by greed: a self-fulfilling cause,
ballooning from the mouths of politicians -
those circus clowns who grovel for applause.

And none of us, perhaps, could have a choice
to save the goodness from its poor ending?
It’s best to blithely carry on, pretending
that happiness is easily produced…
Despair was the lonely, ancient voice
of someone who was evil and confused!

Forget Macbeth, forget the living dead,
the millions unfortunate and starving!
It’s their fate to fall, behold the marvel -
the riches at the feet of those anointed,
amusing fools with circuses and bread.
A drama signifying nothing: pointless…

Another dollar, yet another day,
flung in the teeth of galloping tomorrows;
the privilege conveniently borrowed
becomes the debt for someone else to pay.
It’s not Macbeth, but some illusion, grieving
in search of cues to fight, to ask for grace.
The heroes won the crown; the villain’s leaving -
the nothingness, the walking shadow, stays…