The poem
Ever since those wondrous days of Creation our Lord God sleeps: we are His sleep. And He accepted this in His indulgence, resigned to rest among the distant stars.
Our actions stopped Him from reacting, for His fist-tight hand is numbed by sleep, and the times brought in the age of heroes during which our dark hearts plundered Him.
Sometimes He appears as if tormented, and His body jerks as if plagued by pain; but these spells are always outweighed by the number of His countless other worlds.