Thursday, 8 March 2012

What a job, to be a prophet


I used to complain, what a job to be a prophet
it doesn't pay well, it has nothing to offer
why did I ever apply, I ask myself now
was it for the freedom that fools are allowed?

In the very beginning, I was given a warning
it is just an occupation for a rainy morning
but nobody told me about the long nights
trying to bring men to their proper heights

You don't know what you're doing, I heard
from every contented sheep in the herd
there cannot be any better world that this
where each human knows nothing but bliss

But is it perhaps my spirit of contradiction
that dares doubt truth presented as fiction?
Why was I unwilling to let things remain
stay on the course of a derailed train?

The reason has nothing to do with the food,
for all I've been able to reflect and conclude
My purpose is closer to an aimless drinker
who fears the day he might become a thinker

I was the last to graduate from prophet school
it took me a decade to learn the only rule
My rhetoric lessons have been mostly wasted
I tend to use words too sweet to be tasted

From the modest jobs available to prophets
I chose every time the carrying of buckets
upwards or downwards and the need may be
I missed no opportunity to speak out my plea

In times of discouragement, why did I not quit?
What burning message have I to transmit?
Has it not been proven that nothing can change,
that nobody cares for views that are strange?

Will you believe that by the time I figured out
that harvest is pointless amidst eternal drought
my first disciple appeared, bringing red wine
I turned him away, but came another nine

What is the point of trying to walk straight
instead of following orders to carry extra weight?
This business can feed no disciples, I said,
forget joining a prophet, live quietly instead

Along they came, by the hundreds every week
young, old, married, single, none of them meek
Go back, there is no future in this calling
I cried, but their step was firm beyond stalling

I used to complain, what a job to be a prophet
it doesn't pay well, it has nothing to offer
until I discovered that in old age or youth
nothing can replace the sunrise of truth

[Text: http://johnvespasian.blogspot.com]

[Image by Fr Antunes under Creative Commons Attribution License. See the license terms under http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/us]

What a job, to be a prophet


I used to complain, what a job to be a prophet
it doesn't pay well, it has nothing to offer
why did I ever apply, I ask myself now
was it for the freedom that fools are allowed?

In the very beginning, I was given a warning
it is just an occupation for a rainy morning
but nobody told me about the long nights
trying to bring men to their proper heights

You don't know what you're doing, I heard
from every contented sheep in the herd
there cannot be any better world that this
where each human knows nothing but bliss

But is it perhaps my spirit of contradiction
that dares doubt truth presented as fiction?
Why was I unwilling to let things remain
stay on the course of a derailed train?

The reason has nothing to do with the food,
for all I've been able to reflect and conclude
My purpose is closer to an aimless drinker
who fears the day he might become a thinker

I was the last to graduate from prophet school
it took me a decade to learn the only rule
My rhetoric lessons have been mostly wasted
I tend to use words too sweet to be tasted

From the modest jobs available to prophets
I chose every time the carrying of buckets
upwards or downwards and the need may be
I missed no opportunity to speak out my plea

In times of discouragement, why did I not quit?
What burning message have I to transmit?
Has it not been proven that nothing can change,
that nobody cares for views that are strange?

Will you believe that by the time I figured out
that harvest is pointless amidst eternal drought
my first disciple appeared, bringing red wine
I turned him away, but came another nine

What is the point of trying to walk straight
instead of following orders to carry extra weight?
This business can feed no disciples, I said,
forget joining a prophet, live quietly instead

Along they came, by the hundreds every week
young, old, married, single, none of them meek
Go back, there is no future in this calling
I cried, but their step was firm beyond stalling

I used to complain, what a job to be a prophet
it doesn't pay well, it has nothing to offer
until I discovered that in old age or youth
nothing can replace the sunrise of truth

[Text: http://johnvespasian.blogspot.com]

[Image by Fr Antunes under Creative Commons Attribution License. See the license terms under http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/us]