Perpetual Canon

A thousand voices sang out of women in torn sweaters and freckles of fresh blood across their faces, of angry lovers bleeding out on the kitchen floor, or arms wrapped tight around knees pulled in to their chests. The roast still in the oven, burning. Dried out. Carrots and potatoes turned to mush.  The smell of blood and singed meat competing in the tiny kitchen.

They sang of worry and fear, but also triumph. We are free, finally free, we are excited and a little scared, went the round. There should be something, they all thought, to keep the time.

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