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The Prophet

(— modern rendering)

Teach me to love? Better teach yourself some wit —

I’m the head professor in that art.

Go teach Scots how to scheme,

and Jews how to save a penny.

Teach courage in the back‑alleys,

and flatterers in the palaces of tyrants.

Teach Jesuits, well‑travelled and sharp, how to lie.

Teach fire to burn, wind to blow, springs to run,

and the solid earth to stay put.

Teach women how to be fickle and proud.

See if any of that works —

but don’t waste time trying to teach me love.

If there’s a God of Love, he could take lessons from me.

He brags he’s been in every heart since Adam’s sin —

I’d wager my life (and more, my lover)

that I could show him something new.

I’d give him the recipe

for words that weep and tears that speak,

for sighs like those at the edge of death,

where the soul seems to slip out with the breath —

yet somehow stays, even while it flees,

as light stays with the sun while still streaming away.

I am Love’s Columbus —

the one who must find new worlds in it,

rich with treasures no one’s mapped before.

Yet, like him, I fear my fate will be

to discover them for others, not for myself.

I know the future will call me

Love’s last and greatest prophet.

But what’s that worth, if she refuses

to hear the whole doctrine my muse would teach?

If I must take the prophet’s fate, then let it be:

Fame in years to come, but here and now — martyrdom.