The Mourning Oracle

I am cursed with premonition’s eye,
Foreseeing famines before the leaves fall dry, Droughts before the rivers cease to cry,
Dooms cloaked as promises, tears before they fly.

I wish the world could make the world unturn.

My voice drowned in ceaseless cries, a solemn hue, My mind torn by dread that brews,
Ignored by those who thought my pleas were false and few.

I wonder if Frederick, as Titanic sank,
Felt the chill of foreseen rank,
Or if Cassandra, in Troy’s proud bank,
Felt the sting of truth and scorn’s cruel prank.
Did strangers weep for their efforts’ plight,
Or judge their warnings, blind to the night,
Mistaking them for cries of wolf,
While past bites bled, veiled from sight?

The cursed, like me, watch ships go down,
Their cries lost to waves, their tears a crown,
As loved ones vanish without a sound,
And solitude becomes their only ground.

My curse is my only claim,
A solitary journey, unclaimed fame,
Yet for love’s sake, I wish for them:
May their pride in rejecting a child’s correction,
Be greater than the pain of their own misdirection.
May their delusions bring them peace,
And let their nights find sweet release.
Let the echoes of truth fade away in the dark,
Unheeded and distant, like a forgotten mark.