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Going home in the evening

We gave up any thought of flying long ago

These days we don't even try to run

we dislike walking so we try to ride

(We mostly travel about by bus or subway)

Once on board we all try to get a seat

Once seated we lean back snoozing

Not that we are tired

but every time money-making is over

our heads become atrophied

scales sprout all over our bodies

Our blood has grown cold

But still with half-open eyes

our practised feet take us home

We return every evening to our homes

like reptiles returning to their swamp

Translation: Brother Anthony of Taizé