After the Myths

I understand the longing.

The old stories still carry it,
a time when the world felt nearer to the gods,
when prophets walked the hills
and temples waited for an answer.

It must have seemed possible then
that something listened.

People say the air was fuller,
that every tree held a message
if only someone could hear it.

Perhaps.

But the chapels now are quiet.
Their candles burn for habit more than hope.

The men who claim the old authority
still speak with solemn faces,
still promise judgment, salvation, doom,
whatever keeps the crowd attentive.

Yet the sky remains unchanged.

No voice comes down from it.

No miracle interrupts the weather.

What people want, when the sermons end,
is something simpler.

A room with light in it.
A fire that lasts through evening.
Someone beside them in the dark.

Under the indifferent stars
this seems enough.

The prophets fade into history.
The old gods keep their distance.

But love -
if we manage it -
still does what their promises could not.