One night not long ago I was
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reading this book by candle light;
the room a deep sumptuous glow -
Van Gogh would have found it
chraming. Of course it was raining
and the cars were hissing through
the streets like snakes.
The book discribes a prophet
who comes down from a mountain
to teach people about the coming
of a new kind of Superman,
but the people he speaks to
only ridicule and laugh at him.
The author of the book is perhaps
best known for claiming that
"God is dead," but people forgot
that he actually said, "God is dead...
and we killed him."
He wrote that God is like a star
whose light we can see, even though
the star died long ago.
That night I dreamt of rainbow
colored confetti raining down
upon Madagascan funeral poles
scattered in a grove of ancient oak trees
growing beside a silent black river.