Remettre à Demain, or The Reason I Hate the Dust

But of that day and hour no one knows…

—Matthew 24:36

Tomorrow is the most sacred

day on the calendar.

It’s filled with solemn promise—

gleams like the face of Moses,

stepping down in awe

from Sinai’s cloud.

Even Sol can’t mirror its

brilliance; Sirius

surpassed in glory.

It comes with sweat & blood,

marking doors as if

a Hebrew dwelt within, to be spared

a first-born son. Arrives in

stealth like the Angel of the Lord.

The altar of Tomorrow

will exceed our lamb & wine.

A cup that’s scrubbed of gold;

for the aureate can’t hold its

worth, the bursting of

our seven octillion

atoms.

It cleanses like the Christ.

Our faces in the shine of

its salvation. For what

are bedraggled hands

if not thorough?

Heaping on their fingers

every sin.

Tomorrow has a hymnal

all its own. Humming like the

organ at Notre-Dame.

Whistles like a

legion of marching dwarves—

for the least shall be the greatest

in its Kingdom.

The night before

we’ll groan, begging to be spared a

suffering’s chalice—

Gethsemane put to shame.

But even mercy must

pay the piper when he’s due;

delayed as a Saviour’s vow

to come again;

for here our roaches

shudder, these tenants who have never

defrayed the rent,

know that we’ve exhausted

X and crosses,

aware Tomorrow eventually

morphs into today, larvae

sprouting wings amid the

miracle of the dawn.

Andreas Gripp

September 12, 2026

photograph: New Africa / shutterstock