Heraclitus came to me, appeared here, as I dreamed;
I thought it was reality, but 'twas not as it seemed.
His was an aged countenance, with hair and beard of gray,
He came because of circumstance encountered on that day.
I'd spent a day in mourning for my fellows on the earth;
saw in happenings, great warning, yet in telling, little worth.
He'd wandered 'mongst the mountains once, within his Grecian lands,
He gripped a darkened, weathered staff with both his ancient hands;
“Grieve not, young man,” he said to me. “There's naught that can be done.
All live their lives, do you not see? - for glory, gain, or fun.
They'll steal you blind, and clear your shelves, then breed behind the wall,
do anything to suit themselves, yes, anything at all!
Would that our caring changed the bet. I've dreamed the dream forever,
but if it hasn't happened yet, 'twill more than likely, never.”
I asked then, “Sir, please, shall you nod, Have your gods gone away?”
He shook his head; “There's but one God, and He's on holiday.
He's left us all to our designs, to see what we will do.
But precious few can see the signs, as do I, and you.
Most care not, what He has said, or even who He's sent.
Yet only He can raise the dead, and light the firmament.
I cannot clearly tell you how, but we're of single mind,
we see the world, and we know now, exactly what He'll find.
For all my worry, work, and prayer, my writing, and command,
I lived, and grieved, and perished where, my bones have gone to sand.”
“When He returns, I ask you, then, Would you plead our case?”
The Ancient raised his eyes again, surprise upon his face.
Heraclitus turned to go, his aged eyes a'glisten;
“'Twas always my intent, you know...I only hope He'll listen.”
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