for the iconoclasts

Who knows if there’s still divinity in old things,
in rocks and stones and trees?
Who knows if there’s still power
in blessings and curses?
But across centuries of dead air
we can still feel the ache
and singe of libraries burning.
And the night sky is a gallery brimming
with dead old things that we, more often than
we’re comfortable to admit,
petition for answers about the future.

Maybe swift justice is a long,
protracted silence, pressing itself into the world,
marking our stupid affairs as we come
and go and come
and go,
biding its time.

Maybe someone, already, a long time ago,
with chisel and hammer and old, very old, stone,
in the witness of a tree, a very old tree, and rock
and god
carved a deity of protection for this moment,
an explosion of ancient intent
far outlasting its crumbling form
that maybe today,
maybe tomorrow, maybe a long time yet,
ignites some faraway heart and says:
and the ravaged universe will agree to end,
put down its guns
and weep.


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