And
it seems to me
that life, this brief life,
is nothing other than this:
the incessant cry of these emotions
that drive us, that we sometimes attempt
to channel in the name of a god, a political faith,
in a ritual that reassures us that, fundamentally,
everything is in order, in a great and boundless
love — and the cry is beautiful. Sometimes
it is a cry of pain. Sometimes
it is a song.