As if awakening from a perpetual nightmare
the horror continues.
Across the globe the genocidal impulse persists.
We have learned nothing because the urge
for bloodletting has not been satisfied.
A bottomless well of desire unfulfilled,
a thirst unquenched for corpse upon corpse,
a hunger for rotting flesh over the smell of death.
Is there any fixity of the dark heart of man
now that we banished Divine justice from our consciousness
and euthanized Divine retribution?
We mistook progress for grace,
worshipped reason as if it could absolve,
but no calculus of pain
redeems the butcher’s ledger.
God, once hidden in the shadow of mercy,
now lies buried beneath treaties and teeth-gritted smiles—
a silence mistaken for peace.
We march forward, anesthetized,
draped in flags stitched from the skins of the forgotten.
Empires kneel before algorithms
while the soul,
unscripted,
bleeds through the cracks of our civility.
What altar remains
when the priest is a broker
and the prophet a brand?
Where now
do we offer the ashes
of our unrepented violence?
Is the abyss within
or merely the mirror
we refuse to clean?
Yet perhaps in this silence—
this ache where Presence once thundered—
there lies a hidden mercy:
not in the miracle,
but in the wound itself.
For when the heavens withdraw,
it is the hands of the healer
that become the altar.
In the absence of command,
we are called not to obedience,
but to compassion—
to become, ourselves,
the justice we once awaited.
And maybe that is the final retribution:
not divine fury,
but divine trust
that we would bear the unbearable
and still choose to heal.
