At the end of a broken line
At the end of another year
You find yourself besieged
Alone in a house of trouble
Uncertain whether to oppose
The snow or just walk out into it
An immigrant of your own recovery
The little bits of sanity you grasp
A squeaking dove on the roof
A circle of sun crossing your head
Sleeping with your boots on
And your gun in your hand
Who would have thought that this
Was victory this struggling bliss
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