3. The Call
There was a time—the future told—
When a poet sat in his cabin, cold,
And dreamed his dream, and scribed his lyric,
And died his soul with his thoughts—satiric.
And when he paused to take delight,
And to praise his intellectual might,
Past lightly frosted window sills,
He cast his eyes to the distant hills.
And as he marvelled at the sight,
His incandescent soul took flight;
Oh, to see the fading hills afar
As they hid the Sun and woke a star!
And as was done—for tradition’s sake—
He looked upon the star and spake;
“I wish upon this ev’ning star,
That with her Wisdom, I may spar!”
And though his superstitions lacked,
His wish, an answer, did attract,
For, clear as day and dark as night,
The hills did whisper a ghastly plight.
“Be careful where thou seeketh, son,
For now thou art the chosen one
To hear My words and set thine aim
At saving thy village on the plain.
And if thine eyes will see this sight,
And if thine ears will, truth, invite,
And if thine hands will, Wisdom, write,
I’ll make of thee a guiding light.
But if thine eyes should turn asunder;
If thine ears hear not My thunder,
Babes will scream, and teeth will gnash,
And thee and thy village will burn to ash.
For all thy people are turned corrupt,
And many idols they construct;
They live lives of sin and vice,
And they will pay a dreadful price!
For if they listen not to thee—
Whose words will come direct from Me—
If, from contrition, they refrain,
I’ll smite thy village on the plain.”
The Poet knew not what to do,
So in a fit his soul withdrew,
And—holding back his fearful chills—
He turned once more to the distant hills.
And now a gloomy silhouette,
He asked the hills what he had met;
A daemon speaking truth and light?
Or a frightful dream on a winter’s night?
