I so don't think

I'm not so sure
about this self-emptying stuff:
won't I be left with nothing?
An empty room,
a broken window,
all pretense of prosperity
lost in peeling paint
and rotting boards;
Nothing to reflect but sky and trees...

I'm Job in this pit,
and you're up there playing games with the devil.
I'm beginning to think you're just messing with me,
and want this whole elaborate structure to collapse.
Everything I've worked for,
longed for;
You expect me to throw it all away!

It makes me want to close the shutters,
board up the windows,
lock the doors:


Like the man with only one talent,
I think I'd prefer to bury it,
protect it --
well, cherish it, really --

Do you seriously expect me to gamble
everything I have
on some divine illusion?

I don't think so!




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