By Ilya Bernstein

Downstream

Downstream from all this spilled blood
Will they find new ways to love the past?
Will they conclude just as we conclude
That the past is worth a backward glance
When it overflows like a bleeding wound?

Downstream from this fine-grained dust
That flies in our faces and in our eyes
Will they recall as we recall
All that fire has refused to burn?
Will they find new ways to love the past?

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