A Poem
In the quiet
of the night
we wait
for
the
great storm
to arrive,
engulf our lives.
There is nothing
to be done,
but take
our
place
with them,
and know that,
but for one turn
our fate might change,
rather than
this calm;
we
would
become
its victims,
as they may be.
What separates
is not faith,
the night
has
far
more to say
than we believe,
and does not choose.
We must not count
our blessings,
knowing
which,
that
soon the
others will
come to suffer
this fateful glance,
this eclipse,
broken
limbs
near
severed,
twisted dreams,
hopes corrupted.
This would be us,
but for grace
we say,
but
yet
we know
we and they,
we are the same.
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