If merchants of darkness have captured the hills
and there truly is no help for us, your hair doesn’t smell like stars,
but the angels break apart like clouds pierced by sunlight,  

until this life, this world, almost makes sense.  

If we have lost our voices, if we’re unable to voice our losses
and our words dissolve like cotton candy, the silence tastes sweet
but there is no more to give to this stammered prayer  

until this life, this world, almost makes sense.  

If we’ve arrived at the desire for another world
and have only the tedium of electronics to offer our kids, God alone sees,
but our defeat and our suffering are beautiful, and so are you  

who make this life, this torn-up world, make sense.