How vast their number, how loud their refrain,
The watchers, the talkers, who endlessly complain.
Their seats are worn, their voices bold,
But their hands are idle, their courage cold.
Why build or strive, why sweat or create,
When the world provides so much to berate?
The doers toil, their faces lined,
While critics sit with ease reclined.
They point to the cracks, the flaws in the wall,
“Who built this mess? Who dares let it fall?”
Yet never a hammer, never a nail,
Just sharp-tongued barbs and tales of wail.
Is it fear that anchors them there in their place,
Or the comfort of never joining the race?
To risk is to fail, to dare is to bleed,
And safety is found in the critic’s creed.
But oh, the loss, the unseen toll,
A life half-lived is no life at all.
To sit and observe, to judge, to refrain,
Is to miss the beauty born of strain.
For the world is shaped by the hands that move,
That falter, that fall, but rise to improve.
While the watchers, the talkers, may sit and deride,
The builders will stand on the other side.
So rise from your chair, put your words to the test,
Let action, not critique, define your quest.
For life is too brief to spectate and despair—
Be the one who shapes, who strives, who dares.
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