Do not wonder about the fate of the humans.
Perhaps some of them will remain.
They will create new names for themselves,
those ones who somehow manage to remain.
Then they will go about from place to place,
places with no names, until they find
at last flat slabs of stone.
There they will pause and rest.
There they will mark their names.
They will clear away the serpents, they will
make the fires that burn through the night.
After a while, they will gather in tribes —
tribes with the best names, the strong names.
They will choose clever new priests who can tell
the dreams and repeat the long lies that the people,
the humans, love to hear, again and again.
The priests will say the god is near, they will whisper
the name of the god, and his name will be strong,
his name will be great, it will be marked high
on the rock slabs, above the other names.
When the tribe has fed, they will stand together
to chant the sacred name, the great god’s name.
Oh, it will be holy, women will clutch their babies,
others will pull their hair and shriek.
That night, the god will come in dreams,
this god who gives and takes away.
Mysterious will be his godly ways.
For another cup of the sweet new wine,
poets will praise that made-up god with words
that sound both wonderful and true.
Later, in the shadows, they will weep.