Maybe it serves us right, maybe we’re returning home
Maybe it’s good riddance, or maybe something else ...
Like stones
Like roots
Like worms
We’ll be getting used to it
The twilight and the gods scattered to different corners
Someone’s yawning tore the horizon in half
Hour after hour
Year after year
Century after century
We’ll be getting used to it
Something white and blind settled in the chest
Either a blizzard, or a gram, or everything that’s ahead
Maybe it’s thirst
Maybe it’s noon
Maybe it’s soot
We’ll be getting used to it.