We live as butterflies with torn wings
And fish without gills
And birds that can't sing
We exist as travelers with no map
Chefs with no recipe
Taximen with no cab
But when I open my eyes and look
I see not the bodies and quake that lay afoot
I see life, fragile, suffering, but pervasive
I see love, laced with grief and strain but embrace
The man left bleeding by his brothers
And yet does not hold the dagger’s blade
He will inherit the universe in broken shards It will be his, and it will be no other's.