Man runs forever in a gerbil wheel,
chasing cheese that isn’t real.
Piety, or so it seems,
is a self-fulfilling madman’s dream.
Piety, as some would say,
is the Tower of Babble in the way.
Whoever made the wise man made the fool,
and gave them equal pertinence and due.
Whoever made the candlelight,
made the oxen follow too—
another of the sun to lose.
Whoever made the force of love made hate,
with both of them to separate.
The conducting hands of angel choirs,
let Paradise be Lost.
The hands that gave us Mary’s Lamb,
made those who nailed him to the cross.
Whoever made the nighttime made the day,
and lay before us once a golden gate;
a golden gate between here and there,
to which all figures disappear.
Piety, it sometimes seems,
is a forever-recurring delusional dream.
Piety, the wise would say,
is the Tower of Babel still standing today.