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.