My God is dead, dead, buried in the ground.
At his funeral, we wore white. Everybody.
I looked at his white beard,
and it looked much darker than I ever remembered it.
I tried to hold his hand, but I touched it for an instant and felt its cold, horrible texture.
I tried to look him in the eyes, but, dear him, they never were so black before.
My god is dead, dead, buried in the ground.
My Jesus is alive, my Muhammad beats on.
But this? How can I go without this?
How can I drink now to know that I killed this man?
How can I ever empty out the guilt I endure?
My knife spoke its way into him, and thought its way through him.
So, to God, I am sorry you died,
but with all death comes birth and progress,
and so, to, shall from you.