After the sorrow, the angerrises like dust, a mitewith its own life, its own mightyspirit, its power so buoyantand light that it's borne in the airlike war. After the mourning, the poemforms like mold, its greenspores a wonder, its story dampand slow, ancient, growing, moving through the quiet worldlike fear. After the shock, an energygathers, a secret battery charged, and whatever we knowfor sure has been usedup arises from some holy ground like food.
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