Like the dead make sense, suddenly,
When the drama has been purged
And there is nothing left in it for us.
The ancient evil turns out to have served,
The common good turns out triumphant,
And all the hordes in between, discordant
In their realities, find accommodation.
But there is, when you are in it, no comfort.
Every day hope is stoked and every day it is withheld.
The goal is always postponed, something taken
Every day, with nothing left in its place.
We march with a hunger for justice
And the enemy has burned all our crops,
And our countrymen give us their backs
As the voices of fear divide.
It is here, when your last friend drops away,
In the night, without illusions, without faith,
You can finally see the sky is made of stars,
That the only thing the light needs is dark.
