Wight’s Privelege

Let orchards grow over, apples where we were addled with suspended disbelief. 

Let there be peace, in however many pieces it may come. 

Let there be love, for the lexicon of guns is without thesaurus, burning forests to see the trees. 

Let it be you and me, and not us versus them, for dead men tell no undivided tales. 

Let there be deep breaths, for we’ve all failed in some small sense. 

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