Christmas Eve, 2008 –
I watch Desmond Tutu preaching,
with a glass of Shiraz in my hand,
he talks about sainthood and love.
in my dreams
I belong to no nation or race
defined only by your love
– not Montague, but you- gender free
(how silly of me?)
I awake the day after
Israel bombed Gaza strip.
There is a logic beyond it. I believe
Reason says that attack is the best defense.
How do you justify then the murder of innocent children?
The argument climbs as a rusted church steeple
rotten by time, tears and passions
my faith has fallen:
(how ugly are You in the shattered mirror)
I realize : there is no escape
but to trust Desmond Tutu and say:
There is more good in you than there's evil
and God rubs his hands looking down, pleased
"This is my creation"
a draft that matches the prompt on Sunday Scribblings: "I believe"