Sophisticated Hindus do not think of God as a special and separate superperson who rules the world from above, like a monarch. Their God is "underneath" rather than "above" everything, and he (or it) plays the world from inside.
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
but time apparently
expands with its
Miles apart, years apart, consciously and unconsciously, they turn the key of each other.
∆ Anne Carson, Decreation: Poetry, Essays, Opera; from ‘Every Exit Is an Entrance (A Praise of Sleep)’