There are few who live Nevua
who blaze forward, their moonlit steps knitting and re-knitting the stars in their orbits
who tread through darkness
and the shadow of death
and fear no evil but a moment wasted
who string their bows with the words of the prophets
and whose arrows scorch iron,
to melt chains into knives
who know the dream and ground the specter which haunts the mind of a tattered people
to bring her dancing through the halls of her fathers’
to whom a life is but a stanza
in the only story ever told
and know that the Poet simply waits for one to grasp the quill and write their verse
and will remedy the wanton error,
lost in translation
a wild hunt, a breathless parry
an expert lunge and gentle step
they say the pen is mightier than the sword,
but the Book and the blade fell from Heaven intertwined
and when Moses was told of the two prophesying in the camp,
it was you he thought of
There are few who live Nevua
G-d grant us life, that we may pay our tithes
