The crowd roars in anticipation of the parade passing through. I see them briefly through the forest of outstretched arms. The Saints.
Their legend is irreplaceable. Peerless warriors, unmatched scholars, untouched poets. They march to show their skin to the common people.
But in the flesh, they are sad. Hollow. Defeated, as if they know something that we don't. Something awful. I don't think many other people see it but I do.
And it fills me with terror. The best of us, done before the fight has started. What hope have we?
Paddy Dobson
18th December 2022