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The devastation numb within us trapped in the heart, tumbling in the brain like pebbles. The feeling resembles lumps of raw dough
weighing down a child's stomach on baking day. Or Rilke said, "My heart... Could I say of it, it overflows with bitterness...but no, as though
its contents were simply balled into formless lumps, thus do I carry it about."
We have breathed the grit of it into our lives, our lungs are pocked with it, the mucous membrane of our dreams coated with it, the imagination filmed over with the gray filth of it:
the knowledge that human kind,
delicate Man, whose flesh responds to a caress, whose eyes are flowers that perceive the stars,
whose music excels the music of birds, whose laughter matches the laughter of dogs, whose understanding manifests designs fairer than the spider's most intricate web, turns without surprise to the scheduled breaking open of the entrails of still-alive children transforms witnessing eyes to pulp-fragments.
We are the humans whose language imagines mercy, lovingkindness; we have believed one another mirrored forms of a God we felt as good-
who do these acts, who convince ourselves it is necessary; these acts are done to our own flesh; burned human flesh.
Yes, this is the knowledge that jostles for space in our bodies along with all we go on knowing of joy, of love;
our nerve filaments twitch with its presence day and night, nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying, nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness, the deep intelligence living at peace would have.
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