Mercy falls on the spirit
as water on the tongue
of the fevered and thirsting;
as precious drops on the roots of a seedling,
struggling for purchase in cracked, parched earth;
as loving words exchanged among the dying
on the floor of the Bataclan,
humanity midst the horror,
proving honor and grace transcend,
light and love shining
in the darkest of hours,
so that, when dawn comes,
it is only the brightness of their spirits
that we remember.
I was most moved by 22 year old Isobel Bowderey's statement about the loving words exchanged by the dying all around her at the Bataclan in Paris, that told her people are good, and love is all that matters. As she lay there, thinking she was dying, it was only love that she was feeling and hearing expressed all around her. In the darkest hours, the finest in what it is to be human is displayed.
for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Mercy