Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
Time heals even the deepest wounds.
Time, we like to say, cures all. But maybe the old saying doesnβt mean time heals. Time cures a secret in its brine, keeping it and finally, paradoxically, destroying it. Nothing is left in that salt solution but the pain or rage, the biting shame that lodged it there. Even they are diluted or denied.
Medicine heals doubts as well as diseases.
There is not a formula for the way that God heals. There's not a timetable.
