And I remember the names of my people dearest
And the time they chose to go on, flicker
their little light when it was the darkest
And hope that when the morning comes, they
will be wide awake and welcome it
with open arms and say
the night has not eaten them away–no,
it does not end in struggle; it does not end
in the pushing and pulling
of the earth’s tectonic plates,
or the storm, or the draught–we go on,
for while alive, our stories
have no ends,
only

ands