It began in the summer. The newborn sun’s rays shining through the glass at the edge of a young garden.

The moon watching while the skies wept and floods swept the saturated surface clean of sun.

An autumn morning with a saviour bearing a cross upon his back and later resting his bloodied body on its face. 

Whispers from poets and philosophers finding their way through the slightly cracked sill weathering over time. Thinking and therefore being. The invention of romance and the slow death of love. How art preceded artists and muses are the true stalwarts. 

Gas showers with faucets all the way open on a winter’s eve between 19:41 and 19:45. The blood of 6 million drenching the soil with their blood while the blond and blue eyed huff on the stench of death and genocide.

A spring afternoon when the sunset was seen for the first time in full colour as though through God’s own eye. Every man, woman and child an artist, philosopher, and politician. Dreaming of an ideal state with a newfound youthful hubris.

Winter mornings in the streets of a township. Nyalas pregnant with the militant sons of farmers. Live ammunition ringing in the ears of children dying in their classmates’ arms. 

Nationalist Jews and Arabs chasing sovereignty deep into the night. Putting millions to sleep in their wake. The soul of Jerusalem lying restless. 

Coughs reverberating off the corners of the world’s Great Wall. Sending shattering sound waves across the room and grinding the established order to a halt. 

Ginger haired world leaders pointing fingers. Soldiers waging war on citizens. Earth revisiting lands now occupied by empty cities. Severed heads of children clogging up sewers with the warm mist from morning showers keeping the bodies warm.

On this eighth day. Outside God’s Window.