On the Call

The Artists

The drums
Do you hear?
The drums are calling
Calling
With their steady beat
Beckoning the suns to war
The drums
The drums
I hear their call
The men are marching in the streets
Following the drums
Answering the call
And I find myself among them
Marching toward fate
Our footsteps fall like thunder
And the drums play on
Ringing in ever year
The drums of fate play on
Bidding us continue
Continue
Into the mystery
Into the blank slate
And now our numbers thin
Some falter
Some turn
They don't understand
Still we march
Amidst the deafening drums
But we don't look back
We can't
Our eyes remain fixed
Fixed
We are answering the call
And we cannot delay
No matter our pity
Pity for the slow
For the fearful
For those who have stopped
For those who have fled
But pity most
For those who cannot hear
Those who are unaware of the drums
Of the call
They shall know yet
They shall hear
And they shall see
The torrent shall break upon them
Sweeping away all too fragile reality
Then they shall know
We press on
Further and further we go
Onward
Ever onward
All our strength
And all our will
We hasten to reckoning
Glorious and terrible
We are fired by dreams
By visions
By revelations
By the light that fills our eyes
By the ceaseless rhythm
That dictates our step
The rhythm to which our hearts beat
That passion
That secret
Leading us to reckoning
And the fray
Where resistance comes at last
Driven by their fear
Maddened by the sound of drums
And the earth shakes
As reality falters
For we're tearing at the fabric
Pulling down the facade
The flimsy excuse for a barrier
Painted grey
And aged to match
We will tear it all down
And burn the rubble
Reality shall burn
And even its smoke shall pass away
In the light of truth
The truth that beckons us onward

I accepted not long ago that I am an aesthete. I have also discovered that I am a romantic, this is in the philosophical sense of course, and I am realizing more and more just how much of a romantic I am. My view of artists may be a bit glorified in this portrayal, beckoned by truth to create mighty works and share their view with the world. Granted, there are those who only create art to "entertain" or something silly like that, but I will hold onto my idealistic fantasy of the artists nonetheless. I like to believe that all those who create feel this urge, some sense of wonder wholly other to themselves that drives them to their art. Even if what is created is a twisted form of the truth (which would be tragic), I would still rather believe that they create out of a sense of obligation that they cannot fully understand but cannot at all ignore.
I am such a romantic.