Elegy for Statesmanship

Once, power entered a room softly,

removed its coat,

listened before it spoke.

It knew the weight of pause,

the courtesy of restraint,

the art of saying less

so more could survive the sentence.

Statesmanship was never loud.

It deferred so the future could breathe.

It bowed without bending.

It smiled while counting exits.

It practiced diplomacy the way chess masters practice patience,

three moves ahead,

eyes calm,

hands clean.

It understood that cunning need not shout,

that sophistication often looks like boredom,

that the cleverest knife stays sheathed

until history demands proof of its edge.

Then something changed.

Volume replaced vision.

Impulse wore a crown.

Manners were called weakness

by men who confuse noise for force.

The old skills faded quietly,

like handwriting,

like waiting your turn,

like knowing when not to win.

But all is not yet lost.

After all,

we still have Trump.

Which at least reminds us

what statesmanship was

by showing us exactly what it is not.