5: Prophecy of the Hero
.
A naked babe lies on the hillside.
The fear of prophecy is great.
It waits sleeping and golden,
Unnamed. Without any doubt.
The ragged ones without hope,
Without skill, who warm themselves
Only with their good hearts,
Shall find it there.
That is what the tales say.
They shall be nameless, too.
A milkmaid, a woodsman, a shepherd.
A loved cuckoo it shall be
At their meagre hearth.
A killer of kings, a hero,
A saviour, a long-lost one.
It becomes the truth
Because it is told again and again.
It satisfies the world to be so,
And so it is.
The rivers carve the valleys deep.
The mountains converse with cloud.
All the waters, all the words, converge.
The deep well echoes, resounding.
We join and leave the dance.
A step or two and then return.
Compelled by the music
We fall into the patterns.
Belong, whirl, smile, shine,
Then fade into shadows
And watch breathless as others
Take to their toes, clasp hands,
Lock eye and step and smile
The smile of the dancer.
No competition here.
No winners or losers.
The pattern must be woven,
The threads lock and unlock.
It is prophecy. It is the truth.
Few see it. Fewer still mind.
The stars wheel. The planets rise.
Heroes rise and die.
Roses drop their petals
With the first frosts.
—
simonhlilly 