The Scavenger had his first taste of meat.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Hunter dug his first hole in
the ground.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Farmer planted his first seed
in the field.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
Civilization began.
The Worker laid down his first
brick in the wall.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Soldier made his first ax, his
first spear.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Potter produced his first jar
of clay.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
Time
simply ran.
The Priest sang his first hymn in
the temple.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The King waged his first war of
personal glory.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The Scribe etched his first epic on
a clay tablet.
Oh blessed be.
Oh blessed be.
The story
went on.
Yes. The story went on,
and it goes on still,
even today,
even as I etch
these very words
in the fabric of time.
The sad story of human
civilization.
The story of wars without peace.
And peace without meaning.
Of gods without
temples.
And temples devoid
of anything truly divine.
Of
inventions without inventors.
And
inventors run by their own madness,
to
the vanishing point.
To the vanishing point.
Of actions and reactions.
Of movements without really moving.
Of words without effects.
And sounds without echoes.
Of
trumpet calls,
monotonously calling
to
the dying.
To the dying.
To the dying.
And amidst all this,
the Artist stands alone.
Perhaps a bit tired of blessedness.
Perhaps a bit bored with monotony.
Perhaps,
even, a bit shunned
and misunderstood,
as indeed he should.
As indeed he must,
for that is the very essence of his creative will.
March 1997