The speaker came, and told us of the future.
As we listened, and sweat, and itched
In anticipatory, exquisite torture,
She spoke, in a rambling, soporific pitch,
Of a bleak, gray, distant time
In which each of us would face death
At the end of a long-waiting line--
In which we surrender even our breath.
And as a terror crept upon our necks
At the words of this doom-saying harridan,
And the future became an evil, fatal thing,
She smiled, and a new course began:
"It doesn't have to be that way," she said,
"Losing your life to the lightning IRS
At the end of life you can be more than dead,
You can strive, and be a success."
So the chill began to leave our souls
And our teeth ceased their nervous chatters
As she poured a richer future into our bowls
And heaped plenty on our sparse platters.
"The light of love can pour upon you
And still you'll be unable to see
Until that light can pour out from you,
And you light others' souls," said she.
"Success is not how much you make,
Power is not what you control.
Give to cover another's plate,
And plenty will fill your bowl.
That dim, bleak, possible death
At the end of a long-waiting line
Will only come if you hold your breath
Because, you say, 'It is mine.'
"You must breath out or you cannot breathe,
Keep yourself warm by warming others.
You must give, or you will not receive;
All men are your brothers."
She spoke with confidence, like one who knows,
From bitter experience the truth of her words,
And the thoughts flew at us like buffeting blows,
From the wings of some gigantic, maternal bird.
Some of us heard. I know I did.
And some of us slept on in their sloth,
Too busy to raise their weary lids,
Sipping their watery, bitter broth
That nourishes them toward the dying line.
But I heard, and took it to heart,
Determined to drink the warmer wine,
And play the giving, living part.
...