Far, far away beyond the border of imagination
where the end is the creation waiting to be reborn,
where clowns are serious
and the righteous smugly laugh
in the transient knowledge of their moral perfection,
when chasing horses across the amber pampas where a lone,
denuded tree is a reminder of a god,
who lured by promises of worldwide exposure,
became a software program.

In god’s streaking disgrace,
here on the grassland where e-mail can’t reach,
the computer illiterates have found a focal point,
to this place they march to the tune of the uprights laughter,
which is becoming strained
as they sense that the powerless have found
what they themselves have lost,
the kind breaths of the spoken word.
Wisdom will hide God’s nudity,
horses graze in peace
and clowns will laugh again when not crying.