Can you mock me so, because I wish to believe?
Can you attack me so, because I wish to believe?
Can you hate me so, because I wish to believe?
But what is my belief, that makes me so?
That is rapturous and deadly.
That in my hand is a paper timeless and in my heart a clock ticking.
That makes a human, that makes a beast.
What is this my belief, so violent and such peace?
Is it the blood in me, that flows like rivers, that runs like fevers,
that does turn my belief so cruelly?
Or is it belief that so cruel a disease?