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The gods are long past forgiveness.
Stick-carved dust and water-colored walls
have ceased to amaze;
The smoked petitions and pitiful prayers have ceased to amuse.

The devils of dust and deluge,
here, there, sprout as spotted lesions,
a leprosy cancered over this plague of man.

Thunderstones fail the heavens
and the earth opens her bosom
to bear the heart beatings
of hate meted among peoples.

The hills reject and the valleys swallow
that remnant clinging for rescue
as reward for misdeeds
of desire, rights, and obligations.

When it is finished,
it matters not if any survive.
The gods are but the apathetic imaginings
of the pretenders
to the crowns of creation.

This universe,
having chanced life once,
will chance it again,
and again,
without us.