The sun rises as it always has,
a slow fire creeping over the horizon.
We lie in bed waiting,
for the next bomb,
the next voice screaming
down the line,forcing
that inevitable sunday morning ring.

This is how we live,
with ancient quakes trembling
the earth beneath our feet,
as if walking on thousands of centuries
of broken glass.
Knowing well the lacerations
of the shattered past.

This is our strength
not our weakness.
Our bonds grow tight,
our sound is the sound
of rope under pressure,
its braiding twisting
closer together.

Our circle closes in,
towards the sacred center.
Two alone in the eye of the storm,
destruction swirling all around,
the untouchable calm
of our beating hearts.