The end. It did. And left, it did.
Though the contained remained behind.
Full speed exists, the pace that happiness arrives.
A silent resistence to all and any light,
The shadow withstands the plague.
When trapped man can aim
To discover what he can.
Though there is always an hour
Of the day or night
When man will prove a coward
And fear that moment, nothing more.
It is not much to be.
To find its own expression,
A love cannot achieve.
But one cannot prevent
The act of condemnation
In himself or any other
Even victims can sometimes
There was no surprise in this suffering.
For months, for days, it was but
A continuation of always the same pain.
Dull and enduring, detached from whatever
Wish could be real.
The long exile.
A sudden downpour,
Unrivalled by the old,
Confused and bewildering joy.
A searing emotion.