What folly that the chiefest of my creations
Have now taken up the task of questioning my very existence!
Can the child doubt the existence of its parents?
Or the pottery, the potter?
Yet mankind—my progeny—has chosen to doubt my existence.
How can he even know whether I exist when he, like a character,
Is caught up between the “pages” of creation—his only universe and reality—
Simply living and acting based on my dictates?
Mankind, you have grown wise,
But in your wisdom you have become fools!
You think by seeking me in nature you shall find me?
God luck to that I shall say, for what chance does a character
That ceaselessly roams the pages of a book have in finding its author?
I, God, exist!
Like an author, I’m present everywhere on the page of the universe,
Yet nowhere on the page of the universe!
By me choosing silence does not mean I do not exist!
By Edmund Tamakloe
