For something has risen in our window without
the sound of babies, only a lamenting man
traversing like a bird’s wing-clap in the desert’s
silence, a broadcast echo that shatters
our faith, what has happened to faith that she spins
terrifying stories with no end, with no head
our head, a painful head, blocked
to any flicker of conversation and why is it not consumed by fire
within us, yet days will come, and we’ll see that which was
as it will become and how will we be able to say it’s good this way
even if something blows through our open window
of eternal hope though
today, the fire caught the rims of our
clothes that no longer cover
our confused petrified anxious soul asking
is it so? Was all that we did necessary
even if the awful blood that was spilled
we did not spill, not that we were
forced to spill all of it
with our beloved, our enemies,
fierce as death the land is
silenced.