The War Actually Began with a Revolution Where People Were Very Hopeful

The journalist wrote mournfully.
The dream of collective action,

Past mere vengeance or improvement,
Beyond the particular cause,

Is joy. Those who write about crowds
And study mass psychology

Have been noting this for decades—
Collectivity’s ecstasy.

Nothing’s more exhilarating
Than singing along with the crowd,

And since that raw exuberance
In rhythmic synchronicity

Has been with humans long before
There were enough humans for crowds—

Never alien to small groups
Euphorically circling a hearth—

The more recent, massive events
Must be seen as demography

Amplifying inheritance
To the point of hysteria,

Sweeping through large assemblages
Irrespective of common cause.

There, in the moment, in the mob,
Among the marching protesters,

Surging soldiers, briefly hopeful
Hordes of revolutionaries,

Something has found its voice that’s not
Anything to do with that cause.

But what is it? What’s been unleashed?
Poets and prophets can invoke

The terrible, angelic beast,
But even Yeats didn’t name it.