The
moss that grows in the wake of this unwelcome night
Could
never blur the memories we have, or the pictures we took.
Blame
cold, blame wonder, blame cautious footsteps in frozen air—
But in
the still frost of dark, we all know the war’s at fault.
The war
stood tall to block the sun, commanding in its thorns,
And
broke our bones to shards. We could not
have stopped it.
And in
the years coming, we hope you will forgive us, or forget us,
If
forgetting helps the night recede from your stained mind.
We did
not mean for this to happen here.
All the
lies we told took control,
And the
stark white of our clean night was inked with misery.
We have
as much to do to heal, to breathe again.
Our
polluted air is filled to the brim with shards of bone and the salt of tears,
as is yours.
But one
day this night will pull its fingers from your matted hair.
We are
sorry they were ever there.
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