Abel looked at the wound
His brother had dealt him, and loved him
For it. Cain saw that look
And struck him again. The blood cried
On the ground; God listened to it.
He questioned Cain. But Cain answered:
Who made the blood? I offered you
Clean things: the blond hair
Of the corn; the knuckled vegetables; the
Flowers; things that did not publish
Their hurt, that bled
Silently. You would not accept them.
And God said: It was part of myself
He gave me. The lamb was torn
From my own side. the limp head,
The slow fall of red tears - they
Were like a mirror to me in which I beheld
My reflection. I anointed myself
To the doomed tree you were at work upon.
-R.S. Thomas, Cain
I read it here in your very word,
in the story of the gestures
with which your hands cupped themselves
around our becoming--limiting, warm.
You said live out loud, and die you said lightly,
and over and over again you said be.
But before the first death came murder.
A fracture broke across the rings you'd ripened.
A screaming shattered the voices
that had just come together to speak you,
to make of our a bridge
over the chasm of everything.
And what they have stammered ever since
of your ancient name.
-Rainer Maria Rilke, I Read It Here in Your Very Word