Let us be thankful for murder not yet slaughter,
For the pressure of something controlled, however slight,
That keeps their blood from turning quite to water;
Let us be thankful for dusk that is not yet night,
For half-felt meanings that render their acts impure
For the random pause
And the knife...
That is not quite sure
Remembering, it is wrong to dream of other days
And wrong no less to conjure a perfect land,
Let all of us give thanks,
And pray for the hate that will
Steady the knife in our own sure hand.
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