Outside, the freezing desert night.
This other night inside grows warm, kindling.
Let the landscape be covered with a thorny crust.
We have a soft garden in here.
The continents blasted,
cities and little towns, everything
become a scorched, blackened ball.
The news we hear is full of grief for that future,
but the real news inside here
is that there's no news at all.
Rumi
