Under a Waning Lie
mentiras
“Are they going to kill us?” From nothing to atom and atom to matter and matter to man; only to crumble into dust and cripple into nothing again. It hurt to know.
Your hand finds mine, and I feel the scars and the crusted blood. The horizon is bleached with clouds. “Don’t be silly,” you stress, “they’re going to help us.” Your accent is wrong, and the words are too muffled. I can’t ask you to take the scarf off. It’s too cold.
“But…” The sky fades and the night emerges between trees. I can’t see the stars. I can’t see the hope. “Last time, they didn’t help the others.” I feel the leaves under my feet crack and groan and snap. “We’re no different.”
We all die.
You’re pale. “Don’t say that.” So I look at the clouds again, and count the seconds that pass from the last explosion. “We’re exiles, I’m sure they’ll help exiles.” They burn countries and clouds. They could burn us too. But I can’t tell you that.
“Maybe.” My throat cracks and my tongue itches. I can already taste the nothingness. “Just maybe.”
The silence in between stretches for miles and footsteps, our marching feet blistered and numb. Our last journey is bridged upon our dwindling hope, and it's cold. Numb and cold. It doesn't feel like hope at all. Just a dying flame of what it once represented. But you are so determined; your hand always on mine, your vigilant eyes always on the path. I was too hungry and cold to bother anymore. But you aren’t.
“They’re going to help us.”
I stop to breathe in the stinging air. I look at you, and then in front of us. It is too dark – too late- to make out anything in the distance. And after I inhale another lungful of frost, I hear them. I can hear their boots, the clinking of metal, and the general stealth they are handling. It scares me.
Your hand is on mine. “They’re going to help us.” I hear the crushing snow, and labored breaths. I can’t breathe. “They’re going to help us.” Your voice is right behind me, your hand no longer on mine. I dig my fingers into your jacket. The reflecting moonlight on metal blinds me. You cover my eyes. “They’re going to help us.”
And all I can do for you is keep on lying.
“They are.”
Your hand finds mine, and I feel the scars and the crusted blood. The horizon is bleached with clouds. “Don’t be silly,” you stress, “they’re going to help us.” Your accent is wrong, and the words are too muffled. I can’t ask you to take the scarf off. It’s too cold.
“But…” The sky fades and the night emerges between trees. I can’t see the stars. I can’t see the hope. “Last time, they didn’t help the others.” I feel the leaves under my feet crack and groan and snap. “We’re no different.”
We all die.
You’re pale. “Don’t say that.” So I look at the clouds again, and count the seconds that pass from the last explosion. “We’re exiles, I’m sure they’ll help exiles.” They burn countries and clouds. They could burn us too. But I can’t tell you that.
“Maybe.” My throat cracks and my tongue itches. I can already taste the nothingness. “Just maybe.”
The silence in between stretches for miles and footsteps, our marching feet blistered and numb. Our last journey is bridged upon our dwindling hope, and it's cold. Numb and cold. It doesn't feel like hope at all. Just a dying flame of what it once represented. But you are so determined; your hand always on mine, your vigilant eyes always on the path. I was too hungry and cold to bother anymore. But you aren’t.
“They’re going to help us.”
I stop to breathe in the stinging air. I look at you, and then in front of us. It is too dark – too late- to make out anything in the distance. And after I inhale another lungful of frost, I hear them. I can hear their boots, the clinking of metal, and the general stealth they are handling. It scares me.
Your hand is on mine. “They’re going to help us.” I hear the crushing snow, and labored breaths. I can’t breathe. “They’re going to help us.” Your voice is right behind me, your hand no longer on mine. I dig my fingers into your jacket. The reflecting moonlight on metal blinds me. You cover my eyes. “They’re going to help us.”
And all I can do for you is keep on lying.
“They are.”