I have no hope, but I will speak, Job said.
I will break my teeth on this world,
and spit the bloody chips out in your face,
you who made this, you who made us
for all these good gifts you gave us.
I have this faith:
to come to you, to hold out my fist full
of hot rage, to say
this is no justice,
to open my fist up in your face
if you will not be just, we have no justice
if you will not be tender, we have no tenderness
if you will not hear us, we have no hope
the world will not bear the weight of us,
of all this wickedness
done upon us, and by us: it's
too many graves to count
these days, these days, these days.
Do you count them, God,
these graves?
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