Foggy fugue of Man’s dark mind,

Ever the cause of err, by way of their madness,

You obfuscate the Lord’s soul.

Forms of a divine design,

Seemingly wiped away by Man’s sinister tongue,

How they chastise your sweet shape.

Your glorious modes of being,

With which you reshape the World through your sweat and blood,

Are derided by the weak.

The pure utterances of

Your heart are trampled by beasts of the flesh who have

Forgotten the Gift of Life.

In all, though you are real,

Man sees you as they want you to be seen: as an

Image of their will’s desire.

Some, though, look on you and are

Driven mad — not by you, your grace, but by Mankind’s

Withdrawal from your whole essence.

In doing so, they murder

Themselves with their indifference; with their own rage;

With their useless and void platitudes to success;

With their goal to control all.

They chose not to plant your seed,

Yet still, of the salt that they use to sow the Earth,

Your fruit blossoms to rule them.