Now I live on the far ridge, where the old gods are too tired to listen and the new ones have not yet learned to lie. I keep no shrine. I light no candles. But I watch the stars spin their slow, mechanical grace, and I think: this is enough . No judgment. No mercy. Just the cold, honest clockwork of a universe that does not hate me—because it does not see me.
So let them call me godless. Let them spit as I pass. I am Iyovi. I am the one who walks between the rains. And I have learned that the sacred does not live in temples or commandments.
It lives in the space where nothing answers—and you speak anyway.
But last night, a storm came. Lightning split the baobab where the altar once stood. And as the rain washed the ash into the earth, I heard something—not a prayer, not a command. A sound like the first breath before language.
They call me Iyovi, and they call me godless.
Now I live on the far ridge, where the old gods are too tired to listen and the new ones have not yet learned to lie. I keep no shrine. I light no candles. But I watch the stars spin their slow, mechanical grace, and I think: this is enough . No judgment. No mercy. Just the cold, honest clockwork of a universe that does not hate me—because it does not see me.
So let them call me godless. Let them spit as I pass. I am Iyovi. I am the one who walks between the rains. And I have learned that the sacred does not live in temples or commandments.
It lives in the space where nothing answers—and you speak anyway.
But last night, a storm came. Lightning split the baobab where the altar once stood. And as the rain washed the ash into the earth, I heard something—not a prayer, not a command. A sound like the first breath before language.
They call me Iyovi, and they call me godless.
