Woorden:
Minsk With Echoes In The Movement Of Stone

Through the waxing through the waning. Amidst blackness a spark emerged. And we heaved death's branches upon the skyward flames. A haunting memory left

Faces pressed against the earth tonight. Acknowledgement of the terrors inside. Facing the self effacing the self. This frigid place within me today.

We settle for pleasure. We revel in pain. She will regret forever. He lusts for a cleansing rain. Set adrift and yet amiss. Stranger in a strange land

of suffocating trepidation. Unfettered by the prophecy of experiencing death alone. We try our hand at shielding our faces from our mortality. We failed the sky and lost the movement and echo of stone