The mystery isn’t
In those fascinating
Cobra fangs

Nor in spiders waltzing
Willingly into
Their wives’ lacy webs

Nor in the flapping orange
Glory of conflagrations
That recycle thriving forests

Nor in the natural
Heartbeat of a river
Repeatedly eating its own banks

No

The mystery
Is why do humans
Believe

With the same
Brains that
Build cathedrals

That they have a right to
Pass moral judgement
On God’s ethics