There's a woman, whimpering in the corner by the window. Sunk into her eyes, her soul through sunken breaths. "I have heard it," she says, "I have heard the sound of his fury." And the wind shudders against the pane, shaking it. And the morning grey sky hangs over black trees black chimneys black earth, echoing it. "I have heard the sound." And the light covers in blankets of orange that black earth, my black earth. And she stops crying all at once, but the breathing. "It was always darkest before the dawn," she says, "but now here is the sun." The earth shudders awake.
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