Waiting for Godot-ian Miracle
We clasp our hands and pray, fretful woe not held at bay. We mumble incantations of intricate intonations, and all we want to say, (to the mute idols with droopy eyes, and idle smiles) is that we are not okay. we want our strife allayed, our misfortunes slain. Indeed we are thankful, but in truth [.