As children played calmly in heaven, death had not hoped for the worst dare that she often wrote about. Chanticleer was gone to God’s residence within a bisected eternity. Moses-of-the-first-pronounced-decades had friends that Chanticleer didn’t. However, Chanticleer was still friends with death who had died as long as sunrise had been carefully hungry. Nothing, not even a bird, could have dared to know that such a day when added to the bee’s spectral canticle, would not haunt the hunched llama that was gone long before I got my fingers. As you would imagine, the bee was still waiting for the bird’s death, and yet to this day, no one could hear the screams of God. Oxygen had gone to sleep innocently. Independent hues of my broken mathematics were blessed with one million grains of snow that stood up yesterday only. But after the rain had stopped my eyes from looking at the trees, the surviving housewives stealthily licked death, who never knew how many bullets were fired this summer. “Fire exists,” somebody thunderbolted. I could see it. I could hear the faint whisper of the dead bees as they danced their way to death. I could see the light, but my eyes were burning with light. A bird had been killed by an earthquake, but no one had heard the sound of an earthquake. A pause on revolution like a Jew had gone dead was heard.

“Adversity, reaching its peak, will hang our bashful feet from my school,” I concluded at last—when everything was over—when everything had gone silent.