How often those that help us aren't the ones
That we've been praying to - but other gods and angels
Who hear our prayers in reruns
And, out of curiosity or anger
Or love
Come from above
To Earth moonlit and glowing
To give us what, without really knowing,
We asked them for;
In their bliss divine,
They play with our words
Until they shine
Like bright and hot - but far to distant - suns.
How often those that help us aren't the ones.