Here they talked of revolution,
here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about tomorrow,
and tomorrow never came.
* * *
She cries and bleeds every hour. She is beauty, suffering and happiness, destruction and hope, despair. What honesty I know is fleeting. Goodness appears and then vanishes. Ours live amidst their own creations but bathe in their waste. They are stripped of their pride but elevated to false dignity. How easily we fall into the darkness of our souls.
She is a world rife with contradiction; mauve to mica, wealth to poverty, from the emotionally void to the mentally abundant. Who am I to question my circumstance? I am no one. I have too much, I think I have too little. I know nothing of real suffering, of cleaning a wound that would open again and again, of inexplicable grief. I am ignorant of her pain, her cries for help. And yet she cares for us still, like a child in her womb. And like the disappointment that we sometimes become, I feel inadequate this night.