God's Command
to Angles

Rise, and from their slumber wake the poor nes of My world! Shake the walls and windows of the mansions of the great!

Close the hour approaches of the kingdom of the poor— Every imprint of the past find and annihilate!

Find the field whose harvest is no peasant’s daily bread— Garner in the furnace every ripening ear of wheat!

Banish from the house of God the mumbling priest whose prayers Like a veil creation from Created separate!

God by man’s prostrations, by man’s vows idols cheated— Quench at once My shrine and their fane the sacred light!

Rear for me another temple, build its walls with mud—Wearied of their columned marbles, sickened is My sight!

All their fine new world a workshop filled with brittle glass— Go! My poet of the East to madness dedicate.