It’s the voice of the child who calls the emperor naked,
Of course.
But it’s the voice of the child who calls clouds pretty,
And dead birds sad,
As well.
It’s the patron of the woman catching a trickle of water in her open mouth
As she dies of thirst,
And of the woman who swipes right.
It’s the mountain climber’s, too–
At least, until falling–
And the man who dreams of flying begs its favor.
But the first man to fly knows
It is deaf to prayer,
And blind to need.
The preacher at the pulpit calls it her teacher,
But the sole pupil hearing its lesson is the old man in the back,
Doubting his faith.
The carpenter, when they build, is its employer
Though it never earns a dime.
The gambler has looked in its eyes a thousand times,
Courted it,
Cursed it,
Worshipped it,
Yet doesn’t recognize its face.
The greedy may scorn and disown it,
And the demagogue mask it,
Contort it,
Flay it and stuff straw into the empty skin
(Then bow and scrape to the puppet while condemning its bloody remains for a monster),
Yet all the wealth and power they covet is granted
Solely at its pleasure.
How do you know it?
You say, perhaps:
Like a lover knows their mate
Or
Like your secrets know your friend
Or even
Like a captive knows her jailor
No, that’s wrong:
You know it like a mill knows the river,
Like a kite knows the wind,
Like roots know soil.
What is it?
Yes, that’s right: what is it?
In Search of Secrets 