Muffled drums and heavy head. The procession moves quietly through the street. Windows shut and eyes look away. The heavy silence speaks to our greatest fears. The ultimate defeat.
A single tear. Only one allowed. More would be almost an insult. More would be an attempt to describe what is ultimately indescribable. More would be disrespectful.
Defeat holds hands with despair.
Hope, shredded, walks just behind them and refuses to acknowledge their presence.
Shattered glass lies on the floor. Remnants of yesterday’s party.
Its quiet echoes pierce my ears and burn holes in my stomach.
But mostly silence.
Jumping onto snow with all your might, yet the protest is futile, the sound of it gets drowned into the vastness. The physical marc destined to melt away and disappear, apparent only to our souls that long for an explanation. Sometimes beg for one.
A silence so loud it’s almost deafening.
And all the while a quiet thump can be heard just underneath it.
Regular and irreverent. Defiant. The unperturbed rhythm feels imagined.
It can’t be. It can’t possibly.
Quiet and subtle, yet somehow it envelopes the untold howls of pain.
It is the beat of the heart as life goes on completely irreverent to the tragedy. Almost mocking it.
At the end of the procession, behind all the turmoil, little feet walk to its rhythm.