Perchance God created this world
For you to bless its ground.
Perchance God, with the love He holds,
Believed that you must be bound.
So He stole all your love
And hid it far from view,
And now you walk the earth
Without feeling in truth.
Perchance He’s in endless doubt—
That one day, you’ll forget
What He did, and what He does—
Oh, it fills Him with regret.
So He fled within the stars,
And to work was He set—
To amend and put to right
Eons of secrets.
For from your love He shall create
Everything that ever flew—
Every red, wine-rich fruit.
And in His need to express His self-hate,
From all the silent tears you abate,
God channeled all His sorrow through—
Creating that beautiful, tender morning dew.
A soft imagining: that even divinity may carry regret—and that the world’s beauty may bloom from sorrow stolen in silence.