I had an epiphany the other day… there is no hope, not for anyone.

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A year on…

And nothing has changed.

The wound is still fresh, still gaping;

There is not even a scab to show.

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I wish I had a reason,

Some excuse to make the hurt less.

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The gutted buildings stand as sentries,

Marking the road to Golgotha.

The road is broken, battered, a fallen soldier,

And our feet hit it silently, a testament only to those gone before.

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The sun rises, like every day before,

Like every day since forever, since so long ago.

The sun rises, only to shine upon the water,

Dark and deep and so cold even as it burns.

We have no chance—

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It rushes, roaring and groaning,

Demolishing with no emotion everything in its path.

There is no way to outrun the water,

Hardly any time to pray.

It surges and leaps, seeming to grasp for the sky,

And the sun cannot be seen through the clouds.

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There is no light for the battered city.

For the hopeless and the desolate,

There is nothing but pain and useless regrets.

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The world is dark, like Golgotha.

The veil is torn and the water burns.

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Father, Father… where have You gone?

Father, Father… where is Your Son?

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A year on…

A year and what has changed?

I wish I had a reason,

Something that explained all that happened, and all that did not.

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Glass shatters and bodies break.

Buildings fall and skin tears.

Trees are uprooted and roofs fly away.

Souls look for answers and voices have none.

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There is no dove with an olive branch,

Only a funeral of ravens searching for land.

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Coffins floated through the streets where we walk now.

Even the dead could not believe.

Overhead, the wind whispered and screamed,

Lamenting as it tore us down to the foundations.

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We are children now,

Returned to helplessness.

We wait and wait and wait—

What are we waiting for?

There is no aid coming;

Safe in their halls of marble, we are only a forgotten dream.

We are not real, a world away.

We are figments of a nightmare, standing in the shade of Golgotha.

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A year on and we are still children,

Looking for help when there is none.

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A funeral of ravens flies overhead.

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I look to the sky, have an epiphany,

And keep on my way.

A year on, it is not my problem.

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I cannot hear the dirges.

I do not remember the cries.

I never felt the water, only the wind.

I cannot hear the whimpers or moans,

Only watch it on TV and in my memory.

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We walk the road to Golgotha

And the gutted buildings stand like sentries.

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But it is not our problem.

We are not there.

We are safe in halls of marble,

A lifetime away.

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And overhead, a funeral of ravens flies.