There are days when it seems nothing comes to pass
But the cool wind descended from the North, seeming kind
And the buzzing of immortal flies charting window panes
Competing with the faint chirp and whistle of invisible birds
No omens are to be read in the cloud-covered sky
As even Apollo's fiery chariot has opted to hide
A kind of calm embraces the human all too human heart
The boom of bombs and shrapnel shrieks don't reach it here
Even the summer sports craze takes a welcome break
Past tragedies seem small, negligible like an indistinct stain
What grants this pseudo peace, this retractable respite?
Is it a godly gift to those who stubbornly cleave to belief?
An awareness and acceptance of the irreducible absurd?
The antidote to the affections induced by Love's fateful arrows?
Or is it just a triumphal moment of inherent inhuman immortality?
