> jumping into life.

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When the moment came,
I found I had to carefully unbind my fingers
from the cynicism to which they clung,
had to check hard the impulse to ridicule my own misting eyes.

That part of me was sure he would be shot,
sure that the moment itself
was some sort of farce, was impossible,
would be taken from me.

But a poet read a poem, if badly,
in a moment of honor, and no-one was shot.
(Yet I still can't shake that eight-year habit
of recoiling from impending doom.)

And he can't change everything.
I know that. But he said torture, and
condemned it, and that's worth something.
Even if by now the hope doesn't come naturally,

it still comes. That's worth something.

It's worth a lot. Yes, me too, I kept waiting for the shots. I was so relieved when it was over.

And yes. To hear the word "torture," to feel that the worst of the Orwellian double-speak was over.


All through that beautiful (if recorded) musical performance, I kept trying not to think about the shots coming... we all know how well that works.

But yes, the hope still comes... I think a little more easily each day. And that's definitely worth something.

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