They are stupid bags of flesh, these “children of the light.” They think
that their Creator loves them, but I know the truth
and reveal it to the ones who prove their love to me.
I knew their King before He thought of them—before they were—
before Wisdom watched him mixing up new mud,
clapping her foolish and womanly hands.
Let me tell you what His “love” is like:
but first, a story. There was once
a quiet angel, stronger than the rest, who, by design,
was given to imagination and the discontent
it triggers. He spent a few eons thinking up worlds.
At first he told his Master, who, full of humble pride,
promised to make one for him
soon. But time was passing,
and the angel started growing bigger in his worlds,
till there was little space for other things
and less and less the look of home in them.
The biting disappointment
of living after such long ecstasies
near killed him. So he stopped talking
of his dreams to “Master”— bitter He’d forgotten
the promises He’d made. And time kept passing
and the angel started talking
to his friends, who started
talking to their friends.
Long story short, the angel got his world,
just the way it looked in his mind’s eye
at the moment of departure:
sulfur gates; beautiful, flaming walls;
a rainbow of factories
around a single stair-like mountain.
As he climbed his stony throne,
he saw, far off, another universe
that burned like his, but with a calmer glory.
Something in its sparkle made him long for something
very much like home and very much
like something he had never known. He knew:
it was the first, small world of his design—
a child’s mindless fantasy!
Rage was born that day, and violence
pierced that budding precious place
in the form of quiet questions.
But who puts their faith in fairytales?
The point is that he cares for them,
these “sons,” as he does sheep;
and sheep are sheared, and cannot laugh
as shepherds do.