Life is a sham

How surreal are the dreams,
that they break as they often do.
What must He need,

to see all the prayers through?
The syrian child,
lying motionless on the beach,

or the millions stranded,
at the horizons of freedom without speech?
If He works,

through the deeds of good men,
does he do so,
through those of evil as well?

And why not?
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.

One can imagine him, in front of the stage,
entertaining himself over this sham,
for is it not that the hand that created the tiger,
also created the lamb?