by John Wyatt
copyright 2002
The Shaman sits in his
small cave, drawing Arcane symbols;
Cryptic numerals,
Read by the Gods that they may do
The Shaman’s Will.
The Gods are implacable
And insensate.
They do not their own will, but ours.
Outside, the Faithful wait,
Eager to receive their gifts from the
Manufactured God.
Hungrily, they wait to hear their God’s Voice
Speaking the Shaman’s
Broken words.
To our eternal
dismay,
The language of the Gods is not ours;
So ever the Shaman sits,
Patiently encoding human thought into the
Cryptic tongue of the
Blind Gods.