The Faceless Giver

What is it that marks the trees so tall,

That feels this flesh,

That knows pains and pangs of hunger,

That knows nothing at all?

What is it that I once feared,

That through whom all creation is revealed,

That has felt love and shame,

That has tasted fruit and blood in equal measure? 

To look away is to fear,

Which is original sin.

But to look towards is to see

That’s all there is.

What is it that archives these sensations,

That falls over itself every instant,

That is born again with the universe each day, 

That cannot know the absence from which it’s made?

What is it that toils within and without,

That discovers itself, like a newfound galaxy

That has been burning itself so

That it will have room to grow?

It must be them that looks,

That senses and that hears, 

For I do not. And thoughts are like anything,

They happen free from design.