A half-opened window
rattled from the wind.
I sat in my chair and shivered,
but I didn’t get up and close it.
Who can forgive me
when there are no gods?
I sat and shivered,
hating the truth;
I must forgive myself.
My sister is slowly melting away, a little at a time, like the wax from a candle left burning all night. A hip melts, then the other, and then a shoulder. A thousand miles away, I can hear the drops of her hit the cold floor and sizzle for a moment. I light a candle for my sister, to melt as she melts. Time is the flame.
The cry of the poor is is not always just, but if you don't listen to it, you will never know what justice is.
Compassion crowns the soul with its truest victory.