“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
You lied through the first funeral fires,
The first few times when our heads nodded to agree with you
As if entrapment was like falling on moss—
We only needed to know how to step foot on it.
You lied through the snow,
You lied through the mist,
You lied through the sweat,
You showed a faulty compass.
But the only truth was in the wind,
The only sound was in the cries
And so we bent,
And so we crouched,
Our bodies weighing lightly against our prayers.
Crawling is bearing without attention—
Without eyes avoiding eyes.
And in this settlement, we hung our arms over time.
But look how one-sided,
How cruel this game,
How time still favouring time.