Heathen Land

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And in a heathen land not many miles from heart

A broken statue stands, sharded for an art

That weaves a thousand strands to fray and fall apart

A distance never spanned, soul from soul depart.

Abrade with gritted sand and pierce with flaming darts

Thrown with divine-guide hand, universe’s misery to impart

What folly was there planned, an idol to outsmart?

 

And with a crooked heart, a foot upon the land

Crushing nature’s art, the godling forthright stands

And keeps himself apart from seashore’s willing strands

Denied means to depart unless the gap is spanned

A wayward longing darts and scutters in the sand

Its poison to impart to trembling human hand

With weakness to outsmart the means that god had planned.

 

Folly, heathen, folly, to think in terms of plans

For if the heavens make them, they’re nothing like a man’s.

And you, the priests in amber frozen in your place,

With wars and hate and hunger, where then is your god’s grace?

Broken by the idols, broken by the gods

The fruit of your creation, held firmly by the cods,

There is no peace in living, there is no grace in death

There is no voice in speaking, no surcease with each breath.

Give back what you have stolen, what you have ripped away

The living and the dying instruct you gods to pray.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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