Queue a rock: perfectly crafted by divine
And the blossom of birds and cherries and trees
Admiring His work, He goes and lays down where
The wood drake rests in a mint-like glee.
The mighty margay feeds fated ferrets by the shore
While He comes into peace of His wild wonders
Content with His creation, He beams at His little world
And adds bounties of sculptures and numbers and colors.
A swift scrutiny of suddenness, He gazes at this all
And realizes that there’s something missing on this globe
His eyes shimmer with solution, and He sets to work
To make His own miniatures, and finish His humble abode.
Robing His veil, He bids farewell to His children
And apprises them to hold each other in dear
For they were a family who were to look after His realm
And quick for his word, he winged away with career.
Quick into rising action: The children attempted at virtue
Then ruptured their bond and pierced each others’ souls
The cascade of agonies were so loud that it reached all the way up
That the Very Embodiment of Tolerance almost lost His control.
Descending to Earth, He boomed in rage in the manuals:
“To resist your own afflictions, you must concur to be kind
Each human heart inspires the other, so don’t trigger a domino
To live together is to enlarge the close contracted mind.”
But as some things go, children refuse to listen sometimes
The Very Virtue’s own creation refrains acts of honesty
They go against the very Creator they so highly praise about
And are walking conflictions of greed— the highest act of hypocrisy.
Their mutual fear had brought peace for somewhile
Until individual desires were sowed and released
The downfall was spread, and its baits were in waiting
Yet their selfish love had only kept increasing.
Now He sat down with holy troubles
For it was the darkest sixth hour in their history
He watered the ground with His novel tears
And now enter: the very awaited climax of this story.
The children never missed a chance to sabotage
Or impose selfish rules to strangulate and muffle,
And invade on others who were feeble and weak
And make celebrations at bloodshed and scuffle.
He frowned as He recited His repeated recitals in mind:
“This is the still sad music of my humanity
I have chastened and subdued my own creation
Nor my fault, nor my merit, though I feel ample guilty.”
“Their strength was never estimated by bills or bread
Or industries or idealistic investments
Where are their robots and reinforcements now
When all there is left is human hearts and fragments?”
“And I have never felt this for my other children:
My round ocean, and singing air, and crystal skies;
But in the human intellect: there was a certain distinct spirit
That was the reason why my children died.”
“I failed to make their conceited souls realize
Of the wars that were going on where their spirits meets
I failed to tell them of what their ears refused to hear
I failed to show them what their eyes refused to see.”
“Even their name is a shameless melody of irony
For these Humans are the least human creatures I’ve ever seen
Tell me: what wonders rise, what charms unfold
When there was never any compassion in those eyes?”