#65
After the sixth day,
there came silence.
Oh! It wasn’t because
the seventh is the day for rest.
It never was.
It never was.
The last day was always meant
for contemplation—
the dawning and fleeting moment
where one concludes the story,
the painting, the sculpture,
the art made and given life.
It is on this last day
the author leaves his pen to venture off.
It is in this very moment
the sculptor lays down his hands.
It is—
it will be the only time
the painter will lay down his brush.
All these artists give their work one final moment.
Oh! They make no revisions,
they edit nothing else,
they already see it as finished.
A mistake will be called intended,
no matter how the artist tells himself it was not,
and anything else unintended will be given meaning
by someone else.
Invisible hands move in mysterious ways.
And we, as creations, cannot simply comprehend—
except accept and make do.
We were never sheep in the palm of an angry god;
we were something else.
And the one who made us
never—