We dream the gods and the gods dream us. When we forget to remake them, the gods die in this world.
The young green tips of the great tree with its roots in the sky begin to wither. We remain, brown seeds scattered far, small knotty things, to spring and die in unlikely places.
And I am a maddened shadow in the flames. No gods gleam at the end of this frenzy. I shall dance like Owen’s soldiers, in a parody of celebration, a drum roll to mask a ritual and holy death.
No I am not Manuel, I have not seen the face of god, I have not reached that abyss yet. But I am a dog-beset bear, or a fired heretic, set free to dance unto the end.
A smaller figure, but not one of the thieves. Only a symbol for the rumor of things unattainable.