You, who dictate His will to God, you, the holy mentor
Who unsheathe a black flag to slaughter a neighbor,
Who destroy in the name of the Creator,
I spy with my little I from my city
On the verge of infinity.
You, all sheen and shimmer, ensconced in gold,
Who believe that no soul cannot be sold,
Who rape and devour the world raw and cold,
I spy with my little I from my city
On the brink of infinity.
You, the fruit of my soul, the million loves of my life
I tenderly tended to through suffering and strife,
Who will abandon me to some hell with silence rife,
I spy with my little I from my city
On the eve of infinity.
You, the victim of a planned famine of jobs
Accused of producing too expensive heartthrobs,
Sacrificed to serial wealth and crazy mobs,
I spy with my little I from my city
In the shade of infinity.
You, the achiever, believer, torch-bearer, writer
Who outshine me and want me smarter,
Who outgrow me for the worse or for the better,
I spy with my little I from my city
In the depth of infinity.
You, even denied the right to die because you must toil,
Whom each self-adoring power will use as a foil,
You, forced to fake faith and face fate through all the turmoil,
I spy with my little I from my city
In the core of infinity.
You, who bear only male names, how could You exist?
No heaven of Yours sounds sane, so do not insist!
Creating You to Your image might be the real gist!
I spy with my little I from my city
The world spinning on infinity.
This poem was written by Brigitte Poirson
