et tu, brute?

One by one, they were all gone. Just like that. One victim a day, one stab at a time. But not until the train had moved and they had moved with her -with the current, the flow of river, the trends of the world- did I realize that they were never to come back. Even the final clarion of the engine had us unfazed. We still laughed, lived and loved like we've always done. Our gatherings have always been a mockumentary you know, one that burlesques our vanities. We're like doctors(mockters?) in search of that one weak vein to guffaw at. Any loose character in that gathering and he is to be slaughtered with jibes. But we've never put an end to this mud-slinging, for it makes us happy. You might call us swines rolling in the mud; chances are, that we might hurl a cake of dirt at you humans too. We like it this way, except that we call it Men playing rugby and not some swine-play. But only until the train had her anchors in our mud. Once she moved and took our pig away with her -to be put in another sty, another sky, a greener pasture- we turned silent and listened to her beats. This was the music of time, Destiny's concerto. The beats were turning heavy, the wheels now galloped, walloped our souls and at that time, hiding the tears beneath a cloak of smile and the stoicism of Man was tough.

For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed - Khalil Gibran