We, who live without gods,

desire nothing

out of the ordinary:

a roof over our heads,

food on the table,

the good health of our children.

A small star falling onto the back

of our hand

would hinder our grasp of things.

We do not need signs from heaven.

For to hold one, no doubt a scar would form, which in time

might blend into the skin.

And so become a tale told to lighten

the order of nights stretching

into the wintering heart.

The sky is empty.

Gods are not our witness.

Warwick McFadyen