You are a North wind to ripe figs
Clambering through trees and blossoms.
Zarathustra, misunderstood shepherd,
Sing above the herd
And mock the man who thinks
His leap is its (our) salvation.
Fertile crescent of salvation,
from where came farms and figures,
versions of civilized thought
and newly stationary blossoms,
left its inheritance to a herd
of sheep without a shepherd.
Now to those structures we are sheep,
at loss in a sea of false salvations
and promises targeted to the herd
of mass mentality, propaganda, fig newtons.
Ante christum natum, selfish thought blossoms.
A selfish thought is a practical thought.
Altered hearts and rules of thinking,
under guise of one great shepherd,
give new names to tender blossoms,
lock their sweetness in a safe,
plant the myth of B.C.E., when caryatids fed figs
to wealthy worshippers, a herd governed by another herd.
The blueberry dusk lays low on the sleepy herd
as the sun’s thoughts go quiet,
stars grow in the sky like sweet figs,
and the moon stands in as shepherd.
Blind to a need for salvation,
the sheep sleep until the dawn again blossoms.
Blossom for us (me), Zarathustra, blossom!
“Another leader!”, plead the invisible we,
“Save us from the distracting promise of a singular salvation.”
Not even are these thoughts,
but weeds. Add a gardener to our shepherd's
post, and harvest human figs.
Please, absent leader, save me (us) from the unfulfilled desire of our secret thoughts.
When cherries blossom and buds fall to the earth with the stampede of the herd,
our shepherd may give way to another wind to ripe figs.