The Blood Flows

We make too much of prayer.

In the evenings,
the nightbird sings

and we say "it is beautiful".

The rose
of a young girl's face
passes by us
like a ghost

and we know
it will not last.

Kneel down
to dream.

Rise up
to pursue it.

Our hands
were not made
to be folded...

our eyes
are not glazed
and blind.

The blood

it does not falter.

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