Praise Be the Absent

So…
the god smiles,
does he?

Was it not enough?
The children,
the quiet graves,
the red rivers?

They say he is great.
But great enough
to ignore the blood?

He still listens
they say
to hymns,
to chants,
to offerings made
with stained hands.

Is that irony?
Or is he unaware?
Or… were the children
somehow guilty?

I want to believe
that you’re there,
watching.
But I don’t dare hope.

Still
if you’re listening,
just know this:

They are tampering
with your name,
your story,
your light.

Or maybe
you simply sit
and smile still,
while they dance
in your festivals
built not for truth,
but for your fame.