At around 6:40 I reach a sort of peace:
It is true that somewhere – several somewheres – there is a war,
And that deaths march by along with the swiftest hand,
And as they wipe the face, they wipe the memories.
But still each calculated and precise movement,
Also heralds a something new – lover, brother, sister, mother,
A new atom, a new land,
Or just a molecule docking with receptor,
And it is impossible for me to say which outweighs the other,
And I do not have to live in the dark.
(Accidentally went semi-serious: normal service to resume soon)
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