Today I write a poem about helpless resilience,
This aliveness being useless, I rely on odd stray texts
and prophecies. The generation will cry out for death,
so I have read, will chase it and not find it.
They will thirst and hunger for the end.
They will yearn for it and eagerly listen to anyone who speaks of it.
They will have faith in it like the rising and setting of the sun.
If the most innocent part of it is wounded,
Only then can our blood be purified, our tears be validated and
Our pain be delivered.
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