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We say our prayers with sinner’s tongues, touching sinner’s lips
Our hallelujahs sound like pagan chants
And our raised hands mimic heretical signs
Of gods and demons and cursed men
We are still waiting for the sky to fall
And the sun to darken
Where men cry out, and children weep for their mothers
And the women are all missing
We are waiting for the fires to spark, and the Earth to grumble
And the animals to spring forth from its cracks
We are waiting for the end
With gouged eyes we are waiting for the end to spill out over the horizon
And chase us down
Engulfing our shadows
We are dancing in the dark
Caught up in fits we once called spasms
Now some marking of divine, fated intention
A touching, an anointing
An infestation of the devil haloed in blinding light
We are waiting for the end
We herald its return
To end, to end, to end
To suffer this end, and melt away
Old things wash away.
This is the birthing song.

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