The Idolator's Lament

The idol in you calls to me,
in-animate object. The trees
and birds and changing skies...
The slave of Love on hurting knees
to these will plead as well, the knives
of Solitude and Want astride
a pale horse, o God, o weird prophet...

And if in Your great firmament
the prophet's blood may run,
through kingdoms like a swaddle-rent,
can we not make an idol of the sun,
or else my sculpted Man?
I am the kneeling slave of Love,
and You are like the burning sand.

I cannot wait for Noah's dove
to bring me sign of Heaven's land.