Revolution is Not a Dream

The dream of a new world is a pillow,
soft as the soil beneath our feet,
where visions of grandeur fade like morning mist,
and we awaken to the absurdity,
the comic relief of existence.

We plant seeds of chaos,
and they bloom into nothingness,
petals unfurling in the face of futility,
a garden of contradictions,
where hope mingles with despair,
and every struggle is a punchline,
laughter echoing through the corridors of time.

Revolution is not a dream
but an absence of sleep,
a state of restless awakening,
where the ideals of struggle
collapse under their own weight,
shattering like glass,
revealing the beauty in the shards.

We reject the banners of bloodshed,
the cries for a violent dawn,
for true revolution is a dance,
a swirl of absurdity,
where we twirl in the face of chaos,
embracing the nonsensical rhythm of life,
finding freedom in the folly.

In the marketplace of ideas,
we barter our illusions for clarity,
trading the weight of tradition
for the lightness of laughter,
laughing at the absurdity
of a world that expects us to fight
when all we seek is to be.

So let the dreamers dream,
let them weave tales of glory,
but here in the realm of the awake,
we find our revolution in the mundane,
in the act of living,
in the acceptance of the unchangeable.

For the greatest rebellion lies not in the clash,
but in the quiet joy of existence,
the acceptance of life’s paradoxes,
where chaos and beauty intertwine,
and the only revolution that matters
is the one that awakens us
to the absurdity of it all.