Religions are the shadows
cast by the candle of Truth
when the flame is too bright
for unready eyes.
They speak in the alphabet of children—
this and that,
light and dark,
garden and fire,
while the true orchard
grows beyond their walls.
They exist for those
who have not yet found
the compass in their own breast,
who still walk with the staff of fear,
leaning on promises
and threats of invisible kingdoms.
Justice is the stillness of the scale
when both arms
are the same as the center—
no higher, no lower,
a perfect rest,
like the heart of God
between inhale and exhale.
But as long as there are crowns,
as long as there are chains,
we are not yet
the sifted wheat.
We are still the field—
chaff and grain,
root and thorn,
growing together
until the last harvest.
