Let us make ourselves clear, first of all;
We are here not to bury old gods, but to praise them.
Their thunderous rumbles echo far in the distance now,
And their hymns are translated and retranslated and lost and found
To be murmured awkwardly over tea lights and stray baked goods
Thousands of miles and years from the grand temples they called home.
And yet, there is something to be said for creating our own divinity--
--perhaps, indeed, that it is a necessity.
We are the children of an age that would leave the ancients dumbfounded,
And feel ourselves standing on the precipice of yet another.
With souls alien to all but ourselves
And bodies just the opposite,
We wreak the catharsis that is our birthright.
Our gods are bizarre and abstruse things,
Uncanny to a world so steeped in continuity.
They snake through our veins and flash in our eyes
And drip their ichor of ozone and primordial oozings
To soak the impassive earth at our feet--
--and indeed, why would the earth fear?
It knows that the end we bring is not that of its world,
But of yours.