The refrigerator hums, a drop runs down the dull enamel,
The plates, washed clean of murky sleep, go onto the drying rack.
And my gaze slowly traces the details rubbed to a shine
That cut out for us daily, out of stillness, a muffled everyday war.
Rinsing the foam from my palm, I am left at last with myself,
"When will this end?" I ask, and shut the tap with my hand.
The clothes brought in from outside smell of autumn warmth,
Jeans and white shirts settle neatly onto the shelf.
And the evening sun draws squares beyond the washed glass,
Folding the room's space into dark and blurred corners.
And so, sorting the stacks, the words surface colourlessly:
"When will this end, my God?" - and the routine goes on.
I put my shoes on in the dusk of the hall, pull the lace tight,
The air stands thick and unmoving in the narrow corridor.
In a moment I will take a measured step into the tense city,
Though the sky with a taste of steel has thickened heavily outside.
We have grown used to horror as habit, and pain is barely felt,
"When will this end?" - the same question, worn smooth as salt.
Porcelain touches my lips, and silence falls on my shoulders,
I hide my face from the windows; behind them, cold chasms.
I stitch the shards of war patiently into worn things,
To have something to catch hold of and simply live through today.
Sweeping crumbs from the table, swallowing grief and weariness,
"When will this end?" - dies without echo in the house's hollows.