Once again he cannot sleep.
Once again sleep eludes him like light through his fingers.
Once again he gets up, puts on his feet, pours out his eyes
The window gathers silence tightly around him like a shawl.
The silence has the colour of memory. The colour
* * *
Yesterday he could easily still believe
Today he woke up
And at that moment he knew
* * *
We who accept survival as our password
accept incompleteness as our blessing.
We who dress in blindness and in faith
do not know the colour of our palms
nor the weight of our feet upon the water.
We who have dust in our mouths all day
have stones on our tongues instead of songs.
We who quench fire with fire all night
know that wings are not the only ladders
to the dark, that heavy wood swims too
in the tide of the wind.
We who accept survival
accept survival as our curse.