The Decree

A flood today.

A new deluge.

And a whisper from the whirlwind:

“Build an ark.”

But who would hear it?

Would Elon Musk build it?

Perhaps.

He has rockets enough to pierce the firmament,

ships designed to flee Earth, not float upon it.

He’d call it Ark-X,

launch it to orbit and save

a curated seed of humanity—

crypto keys, neural links, Mars ambitions.

Would Jeff Bezos build it?

Possibly.

An ark with next-day delivery,

with glossy branding, smart sensors,

a hull lined with shareholder dreams.

Inside: select specimens,

lab-grown meat, Kindle scriptures,

and a manifesto in Prime-embossed gold leaf.

Would Bill Gates?

He might try.

With spreadsheets, forecasts,

epidemiological filters on the air vents.

His ark would be efficient, sustainable,

vaccinated, and vegan.

Aboard: data, education modules,

and a backup of civilization’s software.

But none of these men

would know what the voice meant.

Not really.

Who, then, would God choose to build the ark?

Not the richest.

Not the most followed.

Perhaps the one least likely—

a quiet farmer with calloused hands,

a refugee child with wonder in their eyes,

a poet writing by candlelight,

an elder who remembers stories

told before the world forgot silence.

What would God require be preserved?

Not skyscrapers.

Not stock portfolios.

Not influencer brands.

But:

• A handful of soil
  —still rich with worm and seed.
• The songs of whales.
• A beeswarm.
• Love letters never sent.
• The genetic memory of elephants.
• A library of the soul:
  Psalms and proverbs,
  Zhuangzi and Gibran,
  Black Elk and Rumi,
  cries of protest,
  hymns of mercy.

And maybe—

just maybe—

two humans who still know how to forgive.

For if the flood came again,

not by water, but by fire,

or algorithm,

or apathy,

God might ask not for power,

but for faith

in the unseen,

a hammer and pitch,

and a heart that still weeps for the world.