As believers await apocalypse, and the second coming is prophesized in avidly read bestsellers, and as wars (perhaps only a sign that human Sin exists, and awaits redemption by a fresh Lamb of God?) have become TV spectacles, almost scrubbed clean of blood, even though uncounted dead pave the streets (we no longer count crosses borne by others) of desert cities, and as at every Easter, movies about an ancient crucifixion grow even more bloodier and awful,

And as rain scurries over spring trees breaking into blossom, as earth exudes its fragrant aromas after many months of dead winter, I lay in your enfolding arms all afternoon, writing love poems on your body, and keep traveling towards Paradise.

Notes: The title could also, perhaps, be: Why god is merely this era’s collateral damage? Or why redemption is possible only through human love? Or why I keep writing poems?