Blind God

beyond the veil of life and death
beyond the human strife and rest
behold the one who weaves it all
his threads forlorn, he works alone

the fates of mortals at his will
now woven into lush display
of seas and winds, of kings and smiths
a ceaseless dance to be arrayed

there is no joy in the endeavour 
his hands grew coarse, his eyes now closed
yet still he weaves and weaves forever
but he is weak, he weeps, he woes


Until.

A certain fault, his finger slipped
a certain soul: was one - now split
in two, like twins, but half is lost
this fault will have its dire cost
of which that soul will pay the most

with half the sin and half the lust
with half the life and half the love
that soul will seek its other half
in dusks and seas and beetle husks
in birds that sing, in wine enough
in flower’s musk, in serene rain,
that search however is in vain

And yet.
That search.
Will never end.
Oh that hand, that brittle hand…