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.