Who will point you the way to the graves
When your time comes to Walkabout?
Everybody needs an oracle,
But for you who are born without
Or are estranged from your sages –
Stare at your hands
Follow the map on your palms.
God knew you’d be lost one day
So he ‘graved those lines extra deep
Dipped the nib in the ink
A little more frequently,
Dragging the colour from one side of your hands
Onto the other,
So they could point you to the gold
When it is your turn
And you have come to wash the dust from it.

Tell your sisters don’t worry
All that glitters
Is not old
But well, and breathing fine,
We’ve just got to find it.
Nobody told you at the time
That your veins are a grail of confusion
That the world drinks from
(Then charges you for),
And the cup passes on.
This is why you were lost.
But look at your hands:
Yours are clean
And you know now.

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