As the seasons turn,
and
waters flow cleansing to the sea,
I
learn.
I've grown older
in this world,
and few people
listen to me
now.
No longer
am I the oracle
to be sought out
and
patronized.
But there was a time
when
I was important,
when
I walked on water,
God-like
in some people's minds.
Now they tell
me
miracles
don't impress them,
(it's
all slight of hand, anyhow)
and
they look for the rocks
under the waves.
They are right,
there
should
be no delusions,
no
razzle-dazzle
of falseness,
no
bafflement
of bullshit.
I'm no god,
just clay.
But good clay, mind you,
capable
of becoming porcelain
or fine china,
a vase
of exquisite character
or
a sculpture
of world renown.
To many,
however,
clay is but dirt,
and dirt
is beneath their feet,
therefore
not worthy of their consideration.
But consider this,
as dirt, I was here
when they got here,
as dirt, I'll be here
when they're gone.
-Silver