There are many old stories about the opacity of truth,
the paucity of answers, the audacity of humans.
They are endless in variety, finite in length.

A girl sees her mother stand over the corpse of her own mother,
watches to see how it is done. A man stares at his reflection
sees his father and his son, wonders how he got lost between them.
Children live like drunkards in the taste, in the rush of the moment.
And all of it is true.

We know the stories by heart: The stories about questions, complexity,
simplicity, about numbered days and immortal souls.
All the stories we tell,
they are the proof we need
to believe
before we disappear.