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The Silence Afterwards
Try to be done now with deliberately provocative actions and sales statistics, brunches and gas ovens, be done with fashion shows and horoscopes, military parades, architectural contests, and the rows of triple traffic lights. Come through all that and be through with getting ready for parties and eight possibilities of winning on the numbers, cost of living indexes and stock market analyses, because it is too late, it is way too late, get through with and come home to the silence afterwards that meets you like warm blood hitting your forehead and like thunder on the way and the sound of great clocks striking that make the eardrums quiver, because words don't exist any longer, there are no more words, from now on all talk will take place with the voices stones and trees have.
The silence that lives in the grass on the underside of every blade and in the blue spaces between the stones. The silence that follows shots and birdsong. The silence that pulls a blanket over the dead body and waits in the stairs until everyone is gone. The silence that lies like a small bird between your hands, the only friend you have.
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