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“The eternal silence of those infinite spaces frightens me”
                                                        from  Pascal’s Famous Wager

The machine, gargantuan, rumbles on,
Cogs screech or hum as they engage;
either sound is a sign that it is running.

Birds of prey, talons extended, meting judgment
as they feed their hungry nestlings–
The machine screeches on without wondering
if there is innocence.  Since the apple
there is guilt on all.

The butterfly, there drying in the sun, that
is the hum, the mercy that is not strained.
The dimpled baby
swaddled safe in loving arms; 
would that its world
always be so gentle.

Are we born into a cult of pain; transfigured
only by the suffering, finding peace
only with the final rest?  Must we forever fear
that eternal silence and the dark space
all around it?

God gave us seasons to disprove
that awful theory.  It was man 
who invented war.

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