Man Made Gods
Let the blade of your hoe
Sink deep into the soil
But I’m only a child, I said.
No man ever reap a bountiful harvest
Who never till the earth deeper
Than the gods buried their ornaments
Father said to me.
Ornament, I thought aloud
How can that be; when I was told the gods
Are spirits who neither sleep nor dream
How is it that they dress with ornaments like ordinary men?
The gods maybe a creation of our imaginations
Will you stop dreaming and go back to work?
The voice of my father dragged me back to the labour at hand
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Comments about this poem (Man Made Gods by Matthias Pantaleon )
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