Cowled figures lie huddled around a bonfire. A crown-like gathering of bodies, its inner rim almost touching the flames, leaping against the night sky. Barely audible bodies and their murmurs.

He rises. Ambles westwards. An exodus of sorts. He steps inside, as though swallowed by the very ground. But not so before casting a final glance towards his surroundings, distant due to darkness. What is it he knows? Ruins. Remainders. Wrecks. Little left to salvage. After it occurred. Not as long ago as it now seemed. No matter, he is to swerve through the first tunnel. Holds a lantern aloft as he paces by hundreds of doors. He picks one among many, innumerably many. It is not empty. A scarce company of shapes lies gathered there. And as he sits beside them, a noiseless match in his hand, he waits for speech. He hopes for a comforting sentence, the one word he hopes will ignite them all. It cannot but come to pass, he thinks. Given the allegorical silence and the gaunt silhouettes. He draws a few loose leaves from his duffel bag. It is neither noon nor midnight. He begins to intone no more and no less than what was inscribed there. And each and every single listener knows it for what it is.

It tears the ground apart.

*

If I could write it or transcribe it: that one loose nervure.

All would be forgiven.

All would fall into place.