She is a faithful girl, the light burning still in her, as the war threatens in the morning.

She is here in the lake house with her acoustic guitar, singing mournful psalms for us.

Her eyes are wet. Ours are too. God close in the night. God close in our coming deaths.


She sings of Israel’s king crying out in the face of defeat, in the face of his wicked people.

She sings of the Shepherd who brings us to drink from cool waters, lie down in tall grass.

She sings of our tears being wiped away and all these sorrows being gone forevermore.


This lake house, our last peaceful night, my last moment with her before the war comes.

She sings through the night for us, and we love her for it, for her devotion to our time.

Prophetess, telling of a better way and a better world, as this one once more goes to shit.


In the morning, the pale orange sun rising on the water, the dreaded moment come,

she embraces each of us, clings tight to us, kisses our cheeks, prays quietly for us.

We head into the waking perdition, into the war, and she can only watch us as we go.

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