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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.


Sheilagh Lee said...

true devotion in this poem

July 24, 2013 at 12:21 PM
LaTonya Baldwin said...

the final stanza has everything right. enjoyed.

July 24, 2013 at 7:48 PM
Old Egg said...

Most of our lives we ignore the big question either because we are not interested or too frightened to ask. I think that whisper might be a question itself "Did you love or did you hate or did you just not care?"

July 27, 2013 at 2:07 AM

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