Last night I had a dream, a disturbing dream
The people of my land loved their heroes so, that they elevated and hoisted them onto the shoulders of giants
From those lofty heights, they preached and inspired, and painted a world free of strife, a better life for all
My memories are a little hazy, as all dreams are
Because the next chapter sees the giants visibly taking strain, grimacing with pain
Like fattened cows, the heroes have doubled in girth and weight
Each limb supporting a string of new heroes until this tree obliterates the trunk and roots it stands on
Until only the branches can the naked eye see
In my dream I see pestilence
A plague sweeps across the land, death’s icy grip is as common as the cold
It’s a common cold they say
Eat your vegetables they say
A beetroot a day keeps the doctor away
Yet my brothers and sisters die by the thousands, raped by hunger and yet the heroes plunder
And plot and plan and talk and pat themselves on the back
I see despot kings, kings with no subjects cooling themselves in rivers of pain and sweat
I see three year old babes, barely out their nappies, walking for hours to school, just so they can eat
I see extravagantly boastful middle-aged men called “youths” pilfering a thousand men’s lifetime earnings, squandered on drunken orgies and shiny belongings
I see armed protectors of the people, the keepers of peace
Cutting down those who dare ask for crumbs from the heroes’ table
I see the wounded dragons and ogres and witches
The models of indignation
These are your heroes they ask?
Are you so blind as not to see?
You and your kind are the lowest of the low
Look at your brethren up north
They’ll never amount to nought
What makes you think that you won’t go down the same drain
All your problems are self-wrought
Never mind that I won’t give you what’s rightfully yours
Because it never was you see
All that I have I deserve
I don’t owe you a thing
The gentle giant said we’re square, so tough luck, I’m not sorry
Yet you call me a dragon, an ogre, a witch
That my dear Sir, is unfair
I cried and I cried in my dream and awoke with a start
Still traumatized, it took a while to realize this was no dream
Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to a fire
Maybe we brought this on ourselves
Even with everything we know, we look to our heroes to put the dragons, the ogres, the witches in their place
The truth that eludes us, is that these are creatures of myth
We don’t need heroes, we need wise men
We don’t need tales of dragons and ogres and witches
Myopia is curable, we need glasses
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