Читать книгу The Invisible God - John J. Brugaletta - Страница 20

A box of matches is a homely thing,

a drawer that's movable in which there lies

a handy squad of soldiers sleeping cold.

But fumble one to hand and scratch its head,

and it will leap to life, an ardent plasma

avid to destroy a wooden world,

or light a candle's wick or else a stove.

It is no better and no worse than men

who love to build and also to destroy.

What is this cosmos but a field of gleams

that light a little while and then go cold?

What lives is temporal and loves to die.

And yet a trillion stars replace the dead.

Where is the hand that scratches their cold head?