we are evidence of old magic
bodies are an ancient language
some of us are still alive
we are endurance artists

the brightest are the darkest
rainbows are broken light too
the oracles are convulsing
the dead are near

even the saints are fucked up
certainty is rooted in terror
some lies are honest
we are what we deny

we are enchanted pain
small tragedies are easier to grieve
black magic is self-harm
all of these are spells

we are the only animals who think there’s something better
we are fighting the sky
we are forbidden books that must be read in the night
we are fugitive clouds, destined to rain




*last line refers to Mahmoud Darwish's "To A Young Poet"