Earth

I was born in Eden,
in the human world I died;
the tender soil became my grave
nightingales my dirge supplied,
and bore me back to Eden’s side.

My shadow on the wall,
grotesque and grim in tone,
that was Satan between us—
yet the deepest wound I’ve known
was from my Creator alone.

The transparent insect on the glass
kept circling to and fro,
believing it was in the real world;
I watched it die there slow,
a meaningless life laid low.

After a month of rain,
I saw strings of pearls appear—
surely they were God’s own tears;
but why would He shed them here?
Perhaps He knows our pain more clear.

The church played a requiem for me,
as angels bore me away;
the last thing I saw before I left
was freedom locked in cage,
and ancestral selfishness at play.