If it were not for this power
of words to move as it were
electrically through the ether, to twist
the viscera, to throw the switch
of mourning in us, then no one would believe
in anything: not the solid gravestone,
nor the heavens of our invention,
nor the web of steel collapsing
in the wind, nor yet the light brown leaves
twisting urgently over the grey fields,
while the goddess spreads her colours
across the sky in disbelief,
stepping from the hilltop,
her face rendered almost
human by its pity and terror.
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