Only when time moves do we know all that’s left
Of a man in the presence Of the absence of God’s presence.
That he prays to kiss the far-hid hands of death.
That he gnaws at the shadows of pain
behind each valley of uselessness
The absence of His presence
Curses a man to curse the essence of existence.
The morning like night seems
The terror of hell at him screams
At him the voices of hopelessness screech
The absence of God’s presence
Is the abstract of human existence.