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I have looked and seen many things, though I have not seen it all;

I have known many things, but have not known it all:



Where then are those who wonder

where dwells the soul of God?



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in the cupping of my hands,

there lies a shadow,

that seeps away through uncurling fingers

to mark even the deeps of the darkest nights

- is this the soul of God?



there is a pain that lurks behind my eyes

that often lines my mind,

like veins drawn blue

beneath the tourniquet

- is this the soul of God?



there is a wild crazed bird that flies my brain

that never comes within my reach

yet never soars beyond my sight,

whose legs are severed above the knees

and whose song falls just outside the range

of my straining ears to hear,

(yet I know somehow she sings to me)

- is this the soul of God?



motions I have felt,

something disturbing darkly

the profundity of the sea,

raising fretful waves that shoreward falling

growl in severe distemperament

only to futile smash in dismal disarray

- yet in such motions lies

the humbling of the starkest peaks;

- is this the soul of God?



the crow that hobbles to pick the eye

of some mouldering roadside kill,

black sheening in the day’s late sun,

calling cracked, stiff, and archly

strutting

to piecemeal cleanse the stains of death

- is this the soul of God?



the hand that grasps the screaming mouth,

the boot that breaks the crumpled back,

the mind that inks the passing pen

that scrawls the sentence on the walls

of propitious executions;

the fevered silence and tight bitten lip

in a theatre of stainless metaphors

where lives are crutched from bleeding wombs

-is this the soul of God?



the soft swung closing of a heart

shut against another,

the harsh metallic clanging of

one mind set against all others,

the cataratic staring of a billion eyes

locked on lemming futures,

the echo of a hollow soul

where no other voice has spoken,

the tearless crying of silent wailing

where voices cannot be heard,

the scornful sneers and long suffering glances

and the sheer parasitical persistence

in the cradles of our children;

in the temples of our fathers;

in the morgue rooms of our cities;

- is this the soul of God?



Who is there to dare to tell me where dwells

the soul of God?



In deed and heart Let there be the fear of God,

In deed and heart Let there be the fear:

Fear that from the heart of the sore reaved land

we have torn the soul of God

and bound it to the realm of man;

Fear that what we have really left

as inheritance for our children,

is that it is all that we have come to, here,

to idolise the faces

we see reflected in our own blood’s sheen

when we stare into the future,

and now not knowing the growing thunder

of our own heart’s manic pounding

we can but stare in scarce concealed derision

as blade-slashed our own flesh opens

and with our hands still steaming from

the death blood of our dreaming



cry:



"Is this the soul of God?"