The Gospel of the Defeat

On the wooden table of the world, God left His book. A Gospel with pages missing, Corners stained by old tears. He opened it once, But the words disappeared, Like smoke from a candle that no longer burns for anyone. His prophet is no hero now. Just a tired man, Sitting at the edge of a field, Counting stones. “One for the child I lost, One for the prayer that burned away, One for the sky that no longer looks at me.” But the stones aren’t enough To fill the holes that questions leave behind. Up in the far corner of the sky, An angel shook its wings And sat down to cry. It forgot the song it once sang, It forgot what light feels like. All it knows now Is the cold, The kind that grows When no one speaks anymore. Some say God is just an old man Sitting alone in a tavern outside time, His beard dirty, his wine spilled. The fireflies watch the stars fall, Not to help us find the way, But to make it even darker. Man is like a worm Crawling on the cracked skin of time. But even in this worm There is one question, So heavy that it shakes the earth: “Why did You give me eyes If You closed the sky?” The end won’t come with fire or blood. It will come With bread that no one can break, With wine that never becomes blood. And a silence That presses on the chest Harder than any storm. In the end, Salvation is just a forgotten story, A breath of smoke in the thick air of pain. And man stays there, Alone at the edge of the field, Asking the stones If they can still be saved.