And others, still others. They tell me
They are the ones who know:
God, they say, tears up all the pages he writes,
And that is the world. Like a flame,
His hatred of the work and of himself,
Of even beauty in the firmament of words,
Blackens the tree of human speech,
God is an artist
Who cares only for the inaccessible,
He rants with an artist’s fits of rage.
He fears he’s made an image, nothing more.
He shouts his impatience in thunder.
He insults what he loves:
He’s never learned to hold a face
In his trembling hands.
And what we owe God, they add,
Is to help him destroy: we too must renounce
All desire and all love.
We must turn away in silence.
We must smother light with ash,
So earth will be no more
Than jumbled rocks in a ravine.
So God will be no more than blind,
Unknowing grass, under blindly falling rain.
So our hearts will make
The word, in muddy pools
Of incomprehensible time, no more
Than this matter that dreamed God.
Being: less than stone, they contend--
Only a fault
That crosses stone. A weathering
Of ridges in the rift; a color that waits for nothing,
That means nothing in the light.