I cannot believe in you, you gods, you figures of darkness. And I cannot disbelieve in you, you gods, you wild Asiatic men, you Semites, you Aryans, the blue-skinned, the thunderhaired.
And so I will move across your cities, your holy places, where the spices burn long upon the altars and the lids of your priests are heavy and sleepy, a desert wind, and frozen.
And as your symbols. The boar that laid open the thigh of Adonis and the flower that grew from his blood; the water closed upon Achilles and the arrow; the cross in the place of skulls and the boulder at the tomb; the water of the wisdom well and your eye beneath.
And in my hands the gifts that we have given you, our prayers, our hymns, the clever sciences that found your eye within the coursing of the planets, your face within the uncertainty of the undivisible atom, taken and returned from the vaults of your cathedrals, the places of fire before your tabernacles.
For to know is to be, and to limit, and your names are unending, mercurial, ever-changing; unknowable and unguessable, as the surface of the sea.