How lovely the silence in this grand debate,

Where questions vanish like they’re running late.

The papers stack, the answers thin—

But at least they smile with practiced grin.

The garden’s trimmed, the paint is neat,

Though roots beneath may rot discreet.

Still, they sip their tea and boast,

“This ship is fine!” (as it hugs the coast).

Oh, what a charming masquerade,

Truth dressed up in fine brocade.

We queue politely for the show,

While whispers drift where we can’t go.

A nod, a bow, a clever dance—

All wrapped in “just a circumstance.”

And yet we hum a hopeful tune,

Beneath this pastel-painted rain.

They write new rules with velvet ink,

On scrolls too fragile now to think.

A thousand words that say so much—

Yet none that you could truly touch.

The stage is set, the roles assigned,

The past conveniently redefined.

But oh, how bright the curtains gleam,

While backstage truths just softly scream.

Another round of polished grace,

Delivered with a poker face.

We clap for lines we’ve heard before,

And thank them kindly for the chore.

“It’s all for you,” they sweetly say—

Just don’t ask how, or when, or may.

Still, we hum a hopeful tune,

Beneath this pastel-painted rain.

Perhaps the game’s a gentle jest,

A riddle we must never test.

Or maybe we’re the joke instead—

Applauding lies with hearts well-bred.

So let us toast to perfect days,

To skies unbothered by the haze.

And plant some seeds in borrowed ground,

Where someday truth might still be found.

A wink, a smile, a subtle sting—

The kind that only tea can bring.

And still we hum a brighter tune,

Beyond this sunny side of gloom.