Glitch

We thought it was music.

If we were war,
we’d call it necessary.
We’d speak of strategy, flags,
lines drawn and redrawn.
We’d praise discipline,
honour the dead,
forget the fire.

If we were famine,
we’d call it balance –
a long lesson,
a reckoning.
We’d say the hungry
must learn.

If we were cancer,
we’d marvel at our growth –
how we endure,
how nothing stops us.
We’d say we have purpose:
to multiply,
to thrive in darkness,
to take.

But we are life.
We decorate the damage,
dress the wound as wisdom,
amplify the error,
teach it in schools.
We mistake ourselves for meaning,
static for music,
the glitch for God.

© 2025 Eva Dias Costa · CC BY‑NC‑ND 4.0 International