Season Less Times

This night was open to every possibility. The stunted, loveless theories of science had sunk into the mud; quantum, relativity, the Big Bang-circling endlessly, crashing again and again into the same wall like bumper cars in an amusement park. Meanwhile, the steed of love bent time itself, and in a rapture of victory, accompanied by hymns from beyond, planted the banner of absolute and eternal triumph. Bowing its brow to the cool earth, it wept tears the color of the water of life-tears bursting from reddened eyes in prostrations of gratitude-tears that would drive modern cities into the arid climates of Sodom and Gomorrah, and once more water the seedlings of a civilization built on huma- nity and mercy. The storms torn from the climate of the heart, the cauldrons of suffering boiling within chests, the sound of hooves descending in starlight, the muttering of dark nights, rebelli- ous winds tearing roofs apart, blood-soaked dawn rituals; the growing cocoon, the cracking seed, the cries of premature infants... what are these, if not the pains of birth? How much longer can the ice-cold statues steeped in sin, hiding behind armored doors, withstand the thunderous takbirs that strike the domes and pour from the minarets with devastating force?