The Supper

He is the author of what
we see. When we see nothing
even that belongs to him.

Open your eyes and let them burn.

So many things belong to him, yet
every man, a witness to his fury
when stones are thrown, blood is
spilled or hearts are bitter.

In the shadows of early evening,
he comes cool, forgiving with
baskets of fish and sweet wines

for those who know him.

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