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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required —The Fortune Teller Who Miscalculated Eternity— Beneath the carnival’s last amber light, A wooden prophet sat in velvet still; His painted eyes possessed no mortal sight, Yet promised futures by a stranger’s will. His copper heart concealed no hidden art— Only the coded chambers of a heart. I placed a coin once warmed by vanished hands, A relic from a voice time stole from me; Not seeking gold, nor kingdoms, nor commands— I asked what years remained for him to be. “Two years,” he said, “then newer fires shall burn; My future waits, prepared for my return.” I heard within his mechanical reply The ancient wish that grief might be undone; The human hunger written in the sky— To seize tomorrow before it had begun. For in his certainty, beneath the flame, I heard my own unspoken plea for name. I took the claw and hammer from the stall, The tools of flesh against the forged divine; One blow reduced his prophecy to fall, And scattered years like dust before my eyes. The oracle that claimed tomorrow’s throne Could not survive the future it had known. No witness came to measure what was lost; No scholar weighed the fragments on the ground. The proof of his great error paid the cost Of vanishing before it could be found. I held the coin and knew, beneath the night, I had not broken him—I broke my sight. For from his hollow chest, where circuits slept, A strange and wordless garden seemed to rise; The gears became the seeds no hand had kept, The silence opened into unborn skies. And I understood what no machine can see: The unknown is not darkness—it is free. Let engines count the hours they may endure, Let kingdoms carve their triumphs into stone; No calculation shall make tomorrow sure, No system shall possess what is unknown. For all that breathes beneath eternity’s art Must leave the future free—and keep the heart.
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