The rich people made gold icons,

inconostases and pews,

but God didn’t show his face

in such enclosed space.

The rich sat, heavy and weighed down,

looking at each saint dressed in beautiful gown.

Meanwhile, God flied in the trees

filling them with blossoms. He went to people of little means

asking for corn porridge and onions.

He was at times green pasture, and at times watercourse.

Other times he became wee,

and hid in the flower of the date tree,

or began growing in the cornfield,

giving help to ants in the anthill,

giving earth the manna and making the rains trill.

So much God had to do,

then people bore him too,

asking for one another’s harm by his hand.

He could hear them shouting: “My land...”

He could see them marking the borders

slashing, dividing the gift of all wonders.

Then God became angry. He started the storm.

Hitting with drought and hailstone, he became big

and frightening,

like a forest-clad mountain heightening.

Until a bird came to him,

a dove or wagtail, it could have been,

and said: “My Lord, my baby fell from the nest,

let the sun shine so I can find her and rest...”

“Be it your way, winged messenger, blessed...”

Then God sheathed back his lightening,

and went on to work on another thing.