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It is right,

that it rain this day.

The horizon stretches beyond reckoning.

Above it is the gray expanse.

Below, dark waves of grain

mirror the wind’s wild man crazy walk,

and I can no longer allow you to say to me,

“I am your God.”

A heap of stones sighs, leans in on itself.

These are the idols we built for you.

They lie trampled,

your own footprint in the mud

from where you went walking where you wanted

as you wanted.

With your capable hands you have wrenched

from my weak one

another of my precious jewels.

Take from the sky another star.

Let it fall,

reveal itself as cold stone,

and waste no more time in brilliance –

a toy for gods to play with.

How dare you celebrate?

How dare you smile on the obscurity of uncarved stones,

stringing them for yourself,

wearing them, rubbing them gently between your fingers?

Bright jewels of the heavens adorn your neck and brow;

comfort you with their pure hues.

Their light illuminates your eye,

and I am jealous.

I sit in mourning

staring at my own empty hands,

and a pile of stones.

In my grief I turn away,

but when I look to you,

I see all my precious ones.

And it is right.