I forecast rain or darkness
falling. I hold a crystal
in my hand and taste the ashes
of a war to come. Iím paid
to be dramatic. I dress for funerals
and speak the language
of a midwife. You will give birth
to great ideas. You will sit up
late at night and stare
into the television screen
where hope is lost. I see a journey
to oblivion. There are no more
cigarettes. It is all quite vague.
A railway station. The sound
of chains. An echo trying
to become a voice. People
waving handkerchiefs and weeping
as you look back at them.
It could be someone else. I canít be sure.
You have survived. I think
itís you carrying a suitcase
filled with scars, about to spend your last
few dollars on a lottery. A stranger
is whispering. Itís clearer now.
He knows the winning numbers
but wonít reveal them.
He is sworn to secrecy.
Not me. Iíll tell you anything. Anything
you want to hear. Youíre going
to be rich, and famous. There will
be peace on Earth next year.