Impudent godling, he wails the storm down upon us, upon this spit of an island, upon this rocky fragment of memory. Selfish as only gods can be, what does he care for the future? Goat’s milk is sour, is sour; born to eat food not of the Earth, to draw strength from his divine distance, the rich reality invading his mouth can be nothing less than an affront.

Still.

Red-mouthed harvester, he breaks the skin of the horizon, comes blazing across the trail of the sky, never-closed mouth wide and howling his fury, his delight in discovery. He, too, knows the rage that beats the numinous lungs awail inside the hillside’s stony womb, for he too has bitten deep into the apple of the earth and found it bitter, bitter and heavy in his lordly belly. His is the face of death, of a golden summer that swells to bursting, of drought and arson and spilled seed. Godling he cries his doom and ours upon us, his face the face of his father, and what does he care?

A drumming as of rain, of ocean breakers, of mudslides, of avalanche. Brass shields and bronze spears, we wail in mockery. Cry, you heedless infant! We, poor men, will cry louder. Holy brat, what have you to fear? A long and destructive paternity awaits you. Take the best we can give and wail it worthless. We would drown you in more than noise, if we could, if the seas themselves would not welcome you home, arms wide as a lover, and teach you their ravishing ways.