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Voyagerby |
by phil cerasoli When August's tranquil breezes are fiercely blown away By the winds called Santa Ana from the dry Mojave's clay And the air is thick and heavy and the sun's a ball of flame It is then I feel the nearness of the one who has no name. He rides the lofty currents; with the wind his trusty steed That carries him above me at a whirling, blinding speed. With a voice like silent thunder...a whisper, yet a roar, I hear him as he talks to me as no-one has before. And he tells me that he's spanned the globe at least a million times And he's heard ten million stories and he's heard ten million rhymes. And he tells me that he's seen it all, from Eden's time 'til now And he says it never changes; that it stays the same, somehow. That he's seen a thousand Hitler's bring a race close to demise; That he's seen a thousand Gandhi's make a dormant people rise. That he's seen a thousand Ho Chi Minh's fight to set men free, That he's seen a thousand Castro's take away their liberty. And through it all he tells me that the script's an endless game While different people play the roles that always stay the same. Then with a final gust of wind, the voyager is gone But through the months that follow, his memory lingers on. And often in the stillness of a crisp October night I lay awake and think perhaps the voyager is right. But if we are but actors; if the world is but a stage I wonder what is on my script's redundant final page. And if a million people have played my role before I worry that God's watching and that He's keeping score. 'Cause I think that so damned often, my life's been off-the-cuff. But I played the role as best I could and maybe that's enough. Copyright 2001 - Phil Cerasoli | |
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