The Maker Poem by Nicholas J. Roberts

Farewell, sweet little girl;
Your suffering has ended now,
And in this silent, empty room
The tortured screams of every century ring in my ears:
The gaudy skeletons of all of mankind's wars
Stand up before my eyes, to shake their chains,
To dance and dance, and beat upon their drums,
And turn their envy onto me.

I dare to claim such beauty for your face—
Such beauty still, though death has claimed its former fire—
And innocence was in your heart:
Or else I shall believe it so;
It's hard for me to recognise that mourning you's the act of a fool;
Secret greatness is a heavy mantle for a man to bear.
I'm too embarrassed to be bored when yet another dies,
To start again, and yet again, and so on for eternity.

I beat, with hammers, every little freckle, every silver curl;
I drew the lines that mark the furrows of her brow;
I spun the wheel and worked the loom
That made the threads of sunlight glistening in her tears;
And through an infinity of an infinity of doors
I've walked, so I could say that I have shared her pains,
And not so much as picked the crumbs
Of this girl's mortal agony.

The more they know, the less they feel: the human race
Will one day burn its soul upon a pyre,
In striving for another brand new start.
They'll find, instead, another brand of woe,
For I am God, The Maker, maker of every rule,
Of every hope, of every want, of every joy, of every care;
Then grieve for each and every one of them that tries,
For only my cold, futile hatred is their destiny.