TEPID TEA: A Lament of Luxurious Lethargy

	I.

Upon a pillow of complacency,
my head sinks into the dark—
a coward's comfort, 
a cradle of callous ease.

I switch off a computer game,
with its heroes saving worlds,
brave hearts full of fire.
How unlike me.

I sip tepid tea;
a bland aftertaste
slithering down my throat,
a tasteless ghost of comfort.

After a languid flick, darkness swallows the room
and I exhale slowly in the gilded gloom.

	II.

Beyond the bourgeois, bedded silence of my room
I sense the minds of others threading through,
their vastness pressing over my small self,
a fleeting speck in humanity’s weave,
bound to billions in electric, cybernetic streams.

A ceaseless chorus murmurs near:
their laughter, their laments, I hear.

This current swells—serene at times,
then jagged, pulsing, sharp with crimes—
pulsating between strife and peace,
as batons, bayonets, and bright-hot bullets gleam,
next to ballets, bibbers, and the light of a bodhi’s dream.

I feel the hollow hunger of hordes,
bellies grumbling with unmet needs,
as age-old conflicts erupt in sanquine scenes
as prejudices near the surface seethe.

Cradled in wealth this frostbound night,
swathed in eiderdown, half-asleep,
I count sheep to mute the distant screams,
my soul a shrunken ember, flickering.

My moral mind, so long a stone, numbed cold,
awakens with a single, barbed, unbidden thought:

Am I but vapor, weightless, pale, and gray,
drifting above this fractured fray?
Or a marble monument to indifference,
sinking through a crushing dark
where only the brutal honesty of gravity 
holds sway?


Ying:     (leaning back, tapping her fingers against the mahogany table thoughtfully) 
          I like this poem, but I can’t help feeling it’s a bit… vague. What exactly 
          is the author so upset about? Without more context, this is just beautiful 
          suffering—art for art's sake.

Satoru:   (running his calloused thumb along his coffee cup's rim with a half-smile, 
          as if the answer is obvious) Oh, there’s plenty to be upset about. Take your 
          pick from this century's buffet of atrocities. You could start with Israel's 
          brutal campaign in Palestine—a genocide unfolding in excruciating slow motion. 
          And Russia, waging a barbaric illegal war in Ukraine. Then there's Trump—tearing 
          democracy apart piece by piece while ranting in front of television cameras.

Dmiritri: (laughing bitterly, shaking his head) This poem is far too wimpy! Why isn't 
          the author doing more sighing on his pillow? If you narrate a problem, why not 
          take action? Poetry without action is just emotional tourism. March. Fight. 
          Scream. Do something constructive - don’t whimper in a cozy cave.

Frida:    (in a low, almost mournful hum as her gaze drifts to a point far beyond the room) 
          But isn’t that the truth of it? Most people are pathetic. Wimpy. Powerless. 
          The myth of the brave hero is just that—a myth. For every crusader who lifts a 
          banner, a thousand retreat into quiet homes, scrolling, numbing, soothing 
          themselves with the ritual of tepid tea. (pauses sadly) Maybe the most honest 
          thing we can do is admit we're complicit. We are the ones sipping tea while Rome burns.


=====================================================================================
from Peace Pieces: Reflections on Violence and Conflict Resolution by T Newfields
SUMMARY: Some thoughts the conflict between an individual's desire for comfort and the 
         moral obligation to confront the world's horrors, questioning whether inaction 
         is a sign of apathy or simply a common, unavoidable human flaw.
KEYWORDS: apathy, complacency, indifference, moral responsibility, conscience, cowardice, inaction, the hero myth


Author: T Newfields [Nitta Hirou / Huáng Yuèwǔ] (b. 1955)
Begun: 1998 in Shizuoka, Japan ⩝ Finished: 2025 in Shizuoka, Japan
Creative Commons License: Attribution. {{CC-BY-4.0}} Granted

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