From the land to the sea, 

There are stretches of olive trees growing from cinders 

And a watch of nightingales humming Persian poetry,

Drifting skyward, looking for the big man who would perhaps lend an ear.

 

Atop the clouds, there's an Epicurean paradox 

Instead of the big man. 

Head cradled in his hands, he witnesses pirates from plundered docks 

Ravage his gold-stricken land.

 

But to the accusatory eyes, he's still there, almost human, a salvific silhouette.

They chant, "your creation, your army of sword-wielders, your slain children."

Every ounce of hope distilled through their rose-tinted lenses, 

Still searches for a magician once promised to them.

 

The big man, consumed by his own luminosity,

Feels more out of reach now than he ever did.

"I am what you make of me because you made me."

And what follows is silence paving the way to free will

 

And an unchecked promise of a better afterlife,

And hope that clings to the trilemma without reason,

And the crushing debt of a chamber of eternal fire,

And impunity for warlords baptized by performative repentance.

 

The big man says, after a long pause, 

"Even if you think all is lost,

You should still believe in a heaven for my slain children's cause,

But not in the way you've been taught."

 

As they always feared, the eyes see it written in plain language,

The big man shirking his culpability,

Because there was none to begin with.

It has always been men, their moral codes, their deities. 

 

The eyes now know that there may be no answers,

But divinity lies in unconditional good,

And not in chants, statues, or the big man's self-employed martyrs

Who draw blood and consume flesh, only to lure new recruits.