We are all survivors of something,
of love
of madness
of loneliness
of rage.
survivors, even, of daily joy.
We have all survived a miracle at some point.
we are survivors of greed
with which the rain
twist the bells.
how many times have you seen each other
companion and friend
survive
to the hand that took out the fleas
that scratched your back.
This will pass, leaving trees that will howl at the moon.
leaving women who will give birth to forests of fire.
We are all survivors of neurotic gods.
we are made of the ashes of birds
of the red joy of history.