At the end of the day

Maybe fatigue will save us.

Maybe we’ll roll over in the blackest ink-spot of some night,

Our hands will touch, or at last

We will feel the faintest breath of life

Passing between us,

And the rooster will crow. Faintly.

Far off in the distance,

From the horizon’s hidden passage.

And we’ll hear it

And one of us will move,

Finally recognizing the pain

Of remaining still forever,

Of keeping silent amid fear and turmoil.

We will all need to move then,

Like dominos falling

One by one.

Like a snowy hillside when gravity calls.

Like the human heart when it opens

And daylight reveals us, face to face.

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