The god of sin

We are all worthy of forgiveness,
we who watch the weeping ferns grow
and wait for the end of pain
that accompanies the sound of falling autumn leaves,
and no longer even console us.
We are all worthy of forgiveness we who are born
we live and we die
and announce ourselves with trumpet blasts
even when the assembled crowd applauds the last of the cretins.
We are all worthy of forgiveness when we announce God's death,
and entrust ourselves to the judgement of busy eunuchs.
We are all worthy of forgiveness even when we take lives
for the great heart and the fury of the blood-drenched heavens.
All right, forgiveness is ours, now we can sin.
I would like to say, however, that forgiveness consoles me for others
but not for myself,
for I am the only judge of my own sins
and I do not give myself an appeal.
In the last phase of the profane disease of time
I would like to return to the age of knights with fearless hearts
and the piety that spurs the horse to save the last of the derelicts.
I would like to be a servant of the tradition of honour
and look into the eyes, proud and unquestioning
the servant escaped from the jails of the sea
chasing the tyrannical gaze of his woman's love.
I would like to act as if God existed
and commanded me to sin to
deceive sin