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Why do we ask when the answer is always no.
I look into a blue sky and ask the Ghost of Snow.
But there is no answer.
Hold a baby in your arms, who is dying of cancer.
Let her tiny hand grab onto your finger,
In a last desperate plea for an answer,
And then tell yourself you still believe in God.
Cut your dead son down form the hanging tree,
Wipe the fear from his brow,
Wonder what force allows that level of misery.
The answer is not in the dancer,
It is in the dance.
Copyright © Rebecca Watson