Philosopher in rough goat’s wool,
staff shining and smooth,
on that rock, alongside the dusty path
leading along the bleached cliffs,
the olive-leaf compost under your bare feet,
disciples poised around,
faces shadowed by swaying branches and, in turn,
enlightened in the dancing light of sun and sea;
they meditate, catching your wind-flowing words.
One, "pro-hai-re-sis," slips away, beyond.
The bodies of you, philosopher, and your disciples
become olive dust or heavy rain, or stars, wind-lost,
but now I whisper "pro-hai-re-sis"
and you live, again, philosopher.
