There are stories.
There are people telling stories
and people listening to them.
The room is full
of the breath of the stories.
That is enough.
Eight months of winter at minus 40.
A weaned baby froze to death;
the grieving did not last long.
Soon there are stories.
Between prayers and more prayers
between one meal and the next
there are stories.
This kind of state is a perfect state.
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