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Where are you now,
whose mask do you wear?
Behind the door marked with lambís blood
we waited for God.

God was outside
or Nothing, we didnít know.
I was frightened. You held me.
I am sure it was you
sure it was me.

If I pass you on the street tomorrow,
a flicker of recognition will cross
between us like a candle —
that is all.

      — Martha O'Connor