It is strange-quiet. There is not much debate
Heard beneath these grey wintered clouds of fate
The people hibernate in this Southern State
Ten kilometre diameter. Our caged
Perimeter. You’ve heard about grief stages?
The shock our Dan is not a perfect man;
Denial that we need to walk this extra mile;
And bargaining’s a kind of coarsening
Of minds before our guilt sets in. We find
We’re angry for the freedoms that we’ve lost.
Sadly, we pay. Depression is the cost.
But this is how we cope: we hug our hope.
The leaves that fall from trees will grow anew.
Dusk heralds the faint sunrise like the husk
Shed from the seed before it shoots. And mighty
Tides soon turn beneath the strange-quiet moon.
Stars flow in love. Hope glows amongst our clouds.
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