We have lived whole lifetimes in the time since #sotu
Empires have fallen. Men have been born, died.
This country of ours is in tatters, in shreds, stained. Without hope.
In the country of you and me, we ride imaginary horses through cornfields. The smell of burning earth behind us, our arms wide to the wind.
In London, fires rage.
In Somalia, there is no water and children die in their beds, unable to move.
In South Korea, the rains come and the earth and mud engulf whole families.
And on it goes.
We have no right to this: In the country of you and me, where we hold each other up in the night. Against rage. Against grief. Against loneliness.
One hundred yards from Primrose Hill: mob rule.
In the country of our bed.
Children float on a makeshift raft down the streets of Gwanju.
A man carries the body of his daughter from a hospital, she is skin and bone, light as paper.
Fires burn through the night.
In the country of our love, we fret and toss. We wake from fitful sleep. We rise, lumbering into the morning, full of stupid needs.
Come closer, wrap me in the flag of our love: We are thieves, we steal our joys.