So you think we’re done? That there’s nothing left
Inside us now? No greatness? No strength? No
Heart? No anything? You think we were so
Horribly stricken that we are bereft
Even of recovery? Think again.
Inside of each of us lies a wolf in wait,
Lies a sleeping king, lies a soul so straight
Sighted and sound hearted that nothing — pain
Insanity, fear — dims the vision it
Holds and keeps to itself tightly: keeping
Hidden, keeping whole, a vast and sweeping
Triumph of the will to be. Bit by bit
Illumination returns, black sun rays
Light paths again and we tred ancient ways.