The Nomadic Prophet

The Nomadic Prophet:

The waking moon rises above

forked tongues of fire lapping the air,

children flock to its orange glare.

In the silent abyssal night, satyrs, halflings, humans and elves,

hooves and heels in hasty flight.

They rest on lopsided logs

as swirls of smoke ascend the skies

and a neon mist of fireflies illuminates the nearby bog.

There’s a rustle in the brush.

A woman in a cloak,

with wisdom behind the words she spoke.

O’ the children know quite well,

a glimmer grows in her eyes

… tonight, she has a story to tell.

“Settle down and listen close,

my students, would you like to know

why the ground bends and the winds blow

and why my presence comes and goes?

“Yonder the bog and o’er the knolls,

tow’ring ‘bove the tallest of trees…

you’ll hear the voice in the still breeze

of ancient Elder Mountain,

sovereign Lord o’er the valley,

and bearer of the fountains.

Who from clay molded our flesh,

animated by breath alone.

oceans erupted from His stone

filling our dry world afresh.

“I’ve seen Him! I’ve heard Him myself!

I’ve even gripped His guiding hand!

By foll’wing the north wind’s command

through the overgrown unknown.

He knows my name, He hears my groan,

He knows the evil that befell my home…

But Elder Mountain is good,

and every day, He’s the same.

So when I’m tested by the flames,

I’ll trust in Him as I should.

“I confide my fam-ly to Him.

They rest in His earthen palms

whilst I go forth and proclaim psalms

‘til His breeze draws me homeward…

‘til then, I bring you prophecy,

and follow the flow of the grass.”