as time depicts the portrait—the
manner of the mischief—the slow pace of the day. mothers and daughters make kindness, into a
soul steeped in graces, to have furniture for essence, for rhythm, a country,
like war. to survive it, made glorious,
each participating, and needing triumph.
many damaged. many deceased. many in bandages. there will be pestilence, and wars, and
earthquakes—be not concerned—these are not the last days—they are signs. the tales were told. the fury was rising. many were compelled to act in the
moment. we see uncertainty. to question priority—to debate the
affectation—how many will end up in combat?
the world feels heavy. many seek
answers, something certain and concrete.
many more are close to the rage, hesitating to move, trying to
function. in needing to say something
positive, the risk of the cliché appears, but something encouraging should be
said … the memory of the strong, the days of peace, to come as to pass, and
again, to gain composure. we of prayer,
urgency, faith? what will the United
States do? has the war been
decided? will this remain isolated, or
go global? what are the terms and
conditions? the fate of the innocent,
the falling persons, what makes it worthy of the loses?
