Science has inclined people to believe that the world and the universe can be controlled. The gods laugh at the pretensions of us pitifully weak humans, for the gods know that human control over the real world is limited. The gods know that the real world is ruled by whim, and the whims are the whims of the gods. It matters not whose gods or which gods, it matters only that the whims be understood and met.

 

 

In the darkness of the northern woods

In the glare of the savannah’s noon

In the huts of the Basarwa tribe

In the magic of the Celtic rune

The gods of man and universe

Are twice beseeched and thrice believed

By those who seek what they might know

And knowing it are thus bereaved

For whimsy is the stock in trade

Of gods and goddesses alike

Who smile at stumbling man’s attempts

To understand the lightning strike

The woods redound with laughter as

We simple creatures cringe in fear

Basarwa cry as huts grow dark

And flick’ring shadows draw anear

How shall we know the universe

When we know not the smallest thing

But know we well on sharp cold nights

The gods of wood and tempest sing

 

 

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