Father forgive them: they know not what they do.
They do not realise that the choices they make have such repercussions.
They do not know that it is easier to end a war than to begin it.
They do not recognise the moment when their words slice into flesh.
They know not how to raise their children without expectations weighing heavy on the shoulders of the young, so that each generation is burdened with the unfulfilled desires of the last.
Father forgive them; they live
as though unseeing, as though unhearing.
They do not recognise the song of the planets
They do not open their eyes to the specks of stardust floating in the air.
They act, they react, they pretend
that they understand, that they have comprehension of the voices
that reach out to them from across the wastelands of time and understanding.
The voices of those who have made the same mistakes, time after time,
and spent aeons in regret
that no one listened out and learned from them.
Each generation failing to know, failing to recognise the moment
when God put himself at our mercy
and stretched out his hands to break bread
to take the pain and not to rise up against it
to touch and not to harm
to accept and not expect
to know, and not be known.