It was a certain rhythm that he loved
he felt it in total silence, it faded
in the presence of sound, a doumbek
of the soul he would describe it.
He remembered how it was before
their one God rendered him and his kind
mere mythological creatures fit only
for poetry and dusty library shelves.
He would have his revenge some day,
would condemn their God to a corner
of the heavens, an eternity to reconsider
the rashness of his narcissism, but
in the meanwhile he would continue
to rest in the heart of this constellation
hoping to go unnoticed, happy just
to listen to the rhythm of the universe.
an old writer and his words 