God—
(or gods, or something else entirely?)—
laughs
at mankind’s folly.
If the sacred
is beyond all things,
could it be reduced
to books,
to ink,
to words?
A few thousand years—
a fleeting breath
in all that is,
or ever was,
or ever will be.
Would it
(or they, or nothing at all?)
try to explain
in ways we could understand?
And would we understand?
Were we right?
Were we wrong?
Or is it both,
or neither,
or something else entirely?
Would the ones
who question—
monks, priests, theologians,
imams, rabbis—
take the truth
and carve it into their own shapes?
Would they listen—
and hear only
what they have always known?
And when the whisper comes,
soft as silence,
it will tell them all—
Yes.
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