Zarathustra

Whisper to me, Zarathustra.

Tell me what is truth

and what is lie.

For though my will is free,

my mind is bound,

and the good deeds

that return to me

feel empty.

Purify me, Zarathustra,

in sweet waters,

and in the searing heat of flame.
Medicate my sins
with absolution.

Anoint my soul with ashes,

and make me not apologize

for keeping your flame lit

inside my heart.

For I worship at your altar,

though it be crumbling and derelict.

I look for burning bushes,
and strain to hear your voice
in this vast desert.

But you have fallen silent,

the moon has darkened;

winter comes.

And when the midnight vultures

come to pick my bones,
and corrupt flesh
is finally made pure,

please whisper to me
(say my name)

just one final time,

dear Zarathustra.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.