Читать книгу The Invisible God - John J. Brugaletta - Страница 18

It's autumn (as the British say) when apples fall

blood-red against the whitened orchard floor,

each one an ineffective sun, too red, too small

for doing more than mime that middling star's one chore.

Enough of that. Those trees will blossom in the spring

and bear their succulence again, but we will not,

except in sons and daughters and their own offspring,

while we take to the soil to rest and then to rot.

Is there another life our souls will wake to find?

We have assurances there is, but then there are

assurances that nothingness awaits our mind,

as black and meaningless as space or fireplace char.

Where lies the fact? Is it where someone died and rose?

If people then were weak as we would be today,

they would not bet their lives on what they just suppose.

On that I'll base belief, and not on what some say.