When the Prophet Comes Home

 

 

The world is a humongous whale,

drifting through an ocean of galaxies.
We are all small fish.

That is bona fide.

 

The truth never comes out.

Was it a spontaneous outburst?

The way a star is born 

after gas condensed, compacted and exploded. 

Or an act to initiate a new plot,

like every movie vying for Oscars. 

 

The verdict requires an oracle.

A breeze to comfort, strengthen 

the remaining conviction, 

and whisper to us:

 

“When you are tired,

come to the pond.
We will see what fish see

in the muddy water,
and find out
why they are lured by bait,
and how they confront the hook.“

 

Then with a lower voice:
“Even though no one is waiting for you,
wait till the water is clear.
You will see them all.”