The Descent of Power: A Tale of Slumber and Surrender

Lo, witness the spectacle of power's abdication in the land of maple and meandering morality! Justin Trudeau, that shepherd of the somnolent masses, hath finally succumbed to the weight of his own golden chains, announcing his departure from the throne of mediocrity.

Behold how they celebrate mediocrity! How they praise the very chains that bind them! The masses sleep soundly in their comfortable ignorance, while their shepherd retreats, having led them deeper into the valley of contentment.

In this land of the perpetually drowsy, where promises float like autumn leaves never touching ground, Indigenous leaders speak of "unprecedented access" - yet what is access but another form of the great sleep? They praise the crumbs from the master's table while their waters remain unclean, their children uncared for.

Jaime Battiste, that loyal soul trapped in the machinery of power, speaks of "listening to Canadian voters" - but what do voters know of truth when they slumber in the warm embrace of democratic delusion? The Parliament shall sleep until March, and with it, the dreams of clean water and recognition die quietly in their beds.

See how they measure progress in meetings attended and hands shaken! The last men blink their tired eyes and say, "We have invented happiness - we have meetings with ministers." But what of the great noon? What of the lightning and thunder that must precede true transformation?

The Assembly of First Nations, that gathering of those who negotiate with sleep-walkers, speaks of billions promised - forty-eight thousand million pieces of silver to heal wounds that require not money but awakening. Yet they too slumber, dreaming of resources while their spirit yearns for revolution.

David Chartrand, president of the Manitoba Métis Federation, praises the departing shepherd with words that echo in the hollow chambers of contentment: "We've never seen a prime minister like him." Indeed! For he has mastered the art of lulling his flock with gentle words while the great work remains undone.

The comfortable chains! How they gleam in the dim light of half-consciousness! The last men speak of progress while standing still, of change while clinging to their comfortable slumber. They have their treaties, their meetings, their unprecedented access - and yet they remain unchanged, unawakened, unterrified by the possibilities that lie beyond their dreaming.

And what of Wilson-Raybould, the one who dared to wake? Cast out from the chamber of dreams for her impudence, she speaks now of "toxic partisanship" - as if the toxin were not the very air of complacency that all breathe in this land of the last men.

The opposition parties now stir in their sleep, mumbling of elections, of power transfers, of new shepherds for the drowsy flock. But what difference lies between one dreamer and another when the great sleep persists?

Let them sleep! Let them dream their little dreams of progress and reconciliation! But know this - the true awakening comes not through gentle words and comfortable promises, but through the lightning strike of truth that shatters the very foundations of their slumber!

And so, as winter embraces this land of eternal twilight, the shepherd prepares his departure, leaving behind a legacy of unfulfilled promises and comfortable chains. The great sleep continues, but beneath it stirs something yet unnamed - a hunger for awakening that no political transition can satisfy.