My song is the one of survival. And, so?
Cast out of my tent, my work, my home,
For using my talents for tossed coins
To fill my gullet with a little grain,
My wineskin with thin, yeasty grape.
The royal decree sent me swiftly packing
Into the wild, bare mountains of Endor.
Wolves, snakes and vultures are now
My wary companions. Banished now,
Belly groaning, shivering in my cave bed.
Imagine my surprise when he came for me.
Disguised in rags, but his bronzed brow
Gave him away to my flickering eyes,
Trained so long in trickery and persuasion.
This was no shabby goatherd. A king!
He spoke with a commanding tone, and
I obeyed, because I had no other choice.
Conjure the spirit, the freshly dead prophet,
Fearsome man, just settled in his grave,
To advise this beggarly ruler, quivering.
Truthfully, my only power is deception.
Desperate ones believe what they want.
Learning to cast my voice had been easy,
Back in my traveling fortune-teller days,
With the jugglers, pickpockets and whores.
So I tossed it out to the ragged crags, to
Cold and whistling winds that echoed,
Deepened to sound as that esteemed wraith,
And the timid warrior believed it, ate it all
As a hungry baby laps up his morning milk.
Of course, I knew what fate he faced in battle.
That nursing baby could have told you his future.
Because he did not have the swagger of a king.
He had the drained look of a man who'd lost
Everything, and knew his days were at end.
So telling him he'd be wiped out on the field
Was no genius stroke, and I did not need
Any special powers of foresight or "magic."
I am no witch, just a woman, working her
Trade and craft to survive in a harsh world.
But I've heard the whispers and scornful clucks.
Medium, conjurer, rouser of resting spirits.
I just read faces, listen to tales, watch the eyes.
These provide all the clues to predict outcomes,
Even of kings who now lie cold in dusty beds.
Don't fear the roll of the throwing stones.
Ignore the whisper of the swaying oracle.
Listen to the sound of your own conscience.
Fates are not predicted, chiseled or sealed.
Yours, as a soft ball of clay, lies in your hands.
Cast out of my tent, my work, my home,
For using my talents for tossed coins
To fill my gullet with a little grain,
My wineskin with thin, yeasty grape.
The royal decree sent me swiftly packing
Into the wild, bare mountains of Endor.
Wolves, snakes and vultures are now
My wary companions. Banished now,
Belly groaning, shivering in my cave bed.
Imagine my surprise when he came for me.
Disguised in rags, but his bronzed brow
Gave him away to my flickering eyes,
Trained so long in trickery and persuasion.
This was no shabby goatherd. A king!
He spoke with a commanding tone, and
I obeyed, because I had no other choice.
Conjure the spirit, the freshly dead prophet,
Fearsome man, just settled in his grave,
To advise this beggarly ruler, quivering.
Truthfully, my only power is deception.
Desperate ones believe what they want.
Learning to cast my voice had been easy,
Back in my traveling fortune-teller days,
With the jugglers, pickpockets and whores.
So I tossed it out to the ragged crags, to
Cold and whistling winds that echoed,
Deepened to sound as that esteemed wraith,
And the timid warrior believed it, ate it all
As a hungry baby laps up his morning milk.
Of course, I knew what fate he faced in battle.
That nursing baby could have told you his future.
Because he did not have the swagger of a king.
He had the drained look of a man who'd lost
Everything, and knew his days were at end.
So telling him he'd be wiped out on the field
Was no genius stroke, and I did not need
Any special powers of foresight or "magic."
I am no witch, just a woman, working her
Trade and craft to survive in a harsh world.
But I've heard the whispers and scornful clucks.
Medium, conjurer, rouser of resting spirits.
I just read faces, listen to tales, watch the eyes.
These provide all the clues to predict outcomes,
Even of kings who now lie cold in dusty beds.
Don't fear the roll of the throwing stones.
Ignore the whisper of the swaying oracle.
Listen to the sound of your own conscience.
Fates are not predicted, chiseled or sealed.
Yours, as a soft ball of clay, lies in your hands.
