The Shaman

The Shaman, he has given up on me
Those who live by the books
Die with their eyes open
He says
His voice almost sympathetic
And live with their eyes closed
I can hear the post-script
In his tired voice

I bow to him
Almost respectfully
It’s hard to say goodbye
When it’s already been said
It’s not pleasant talking to closed doors
Even though you know
On the other side you can be heard
Being heard is not the same
As being listened to

We’ll meet again
I say finally, with conviction
I wanted to say,
Our paths, will meet again
But he knows what I mean
(He’s not shaman for no reason)
I doubt, he says
I’ve reached the end of my road
But I know he uses the I and my
To tell me the follies
Of not using we and our

Is that what the spirits are telling you?
I ask, without a hint of cynicism
He looks into my eyes
And shakes his head
No, but I see that they’re talking to you
I look at him, confused
Then, with a dismissive gesture, he walks away

Your paths will never meet again
For that would be a loop
I can almost hear the spirits talking
The Shamans are always right
In their own way