Atheistic Humanism Poem by Artchil Daug

Three non-believers told me that they
believe that they don't believe in God
and that the roots of Descartes' tree
turned to ashes through the fires of science—
I stink therefore I am;
they reminded me of that town farmer who
I used to bargain vegetables with,
who went to school for the education
he was told he sorely needed and
thus, believing in his teacher also
talked of that man in Jerusalem who
walked on water, turned water into wine,
raised a man from the dead, and
raise himself from the fate on the
cross through the resurrection;
they reminded me of those four sheep
in the stables of the logos who caught
my mind's eyes the other week or so
bleating annoyingly of a French Revolution
and enlightenment, the lighting of the torch
of reason and logic, the number of the beast,
mimicry and salvation through
Robespierre's goddess, and that profound
bending of faith towards men,

and

there in their lips: humanity's claim for godhood
as if, man was indeed
measured, weighed
yet found
wanting.