Supposing, then, i was raised by him,
and events should lead to my rebirth:
i’d vanish, then, from parents prim,
who, in turn, would consider my worth.
So what, then, of the time in between
my disappearance and coming of age?
Now, since, in heaven, we’re never keen
to leave our family, we see the stage
that, over time, was engaged, and we
would ask: when will i see them again?
Have they merged with the outer banks he
would define, separating men from men?
Were they bad? Did they ever exist?
How do i, at once, sustain the tension?
What about the times that, indeed, persist—
the life i lived when i remained undone,
going to this event? The past, all over,
is remembered differently, a subject
of untold enmity that we uncover,
gently, as we seek the truth we’d correct,
wishing, for a moment, that he was here.
But things weren’t as they should’ve been,
or else i should never disappear:
We must atone: that’s why i’m born again.
Missing him, then, is the sufferance
that takes shape, making me a new man.
I don’t forget the love that, at once,
made me into a person that began
at this new-fangled moment in time.
My final condition is that i can’t know,
ultimately, if he was privy to my crime,
wanting, secretly, for me to go.
The law of love would have it no other
way—we treat every object the same,
since loving them brings us together,
rising above, for love, his mortal game.
So i’m at peace, in a sense, either way—to know that we lived the one and only path that leads to salvation. But i can suffer and be at peace—i can accept, and be one with, my suffering. The process of atonement puts me at peace. But is it unsatisfying, in a way, to wonder: did this person ever actually exist—were they bad? Was I a fool? And, if I can’t help but assume the worst, then i might go on thinking highly of myself, and less of him (for fooling me), when, in fact, his life might not have ended—he might simply be in a different place.
So—yes, we must treat everyone according to the law of love, and develop a relationship, according to the law of love, if one should evolve. But no, we can’t go on thinking highly of ourselves, assuming this person, in fact, is not real, and, therefore, their badness had nothing to do with us. If a relationship does evolve, and that person ceases to exist, which would mean, technically, that they never existed, then a part of us was complicit with the bad—the self-esteem we built from that relationship was built on that which was bad, and, as such, we’ve strayed from our fundamental nature—and our relationship with Him.
So, it is more desirable that a person has been reborn, because, in that case, we may have been a part of the problem, but, in fact, we were interacting with something that might’ve, likewise, been partially bad, but was fundamentally good—in short, a real soul, someone that truly exists. Therefore we would realize that the bad in us, over time, was being corrected by our relationship, rather than developing along with it. Therefore it is unsatisfying, in a way, because we should hope that our loved one has been reborn, and we can’t know, at least for a while, if, in fact, that is the case. But that dissatisfaction, the not knowing, is the means by which the bad in us is replaced by the good.