Stephen Crane






A little ink more or less!
It surely can't matter?  
Even the sky and the opulent sea,  
The plains and the hills, aloof,  
Hear the uproar of all these books.  
But it is only a little ink more or less.  
 
What?  
You define me God with these trinkets?  
 Can my misery meal on an ordered walking   
Of surpliced numskulls?  
And a fanfare of lights?  
Or even upon the measured pulpitings  
Of the familiar false and true?  
Is this God?  
Where, then, is hell?  
Show me some bastard mushroom  
Sprung from a pollution of blood.  
It is better. 
 
Where is God?