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For the Priest
Fie upon you, you wicked priest! Let it rain fire and stones on your home. Let your brethren die of despicable disease.
Did I betray something? Do I become too obvious? Well, only the priest can force a man to become obvious, only a priest. Therein lies his powers. Only the priest can take an outwardly meek and calm man and turn him into a dragon with fake claws and fangs. A dragon which breathes the fire of self-hatred and spits venom on the passers-by.
Do I become too obvious? Or, do I see through you? Do I see through you, O disgraceful human, do I see something in you which you haven't seen?
Life is a long, tiring journey, fraught with physical danger. But joy lies at the end, only when the end is reached. Many are the men on this earth. Do you intend to take away the joys of the men on this earth? Do you want men to reach the end of their journey or do you want them to rest in your wayside inn?
Rest, relaxation, laxity, tolerance, non-violence, looseness, languor: this is all you teach. Yet you claim to 'arm man for life's struggle'.
Sacrifice, neighbor-love, God-love is all you preach. Yet you claim that you strive for 'betterment of all humanity'.
O stealer of souls, you stunt men, you stunt their thinking and morals, yet you claim to be God's servant.
Rituals, ghee, animal sacrifices and worship of stone idols, this is what you have degenerated to. Won't you practice your fine art of mysticism anymore? Have you realized that lies and effrontery do not work on the minds of men who know no truth any longer?
You won't pretend to be a philosopher anymore? You won't say that you know the truths anymore? Have you too, been stricken by the climate of our age? Why have you too, turned into a mouthpiece for the socialists and the liberals?
Turn back, I tell you. Turn back and run. The world needs a little bit of mysticism, provide that. Speak of the secrets that you do not know of, confuse them, for then men will somehow realize that do not know everything.
Yes, even you did something noble then, in times when you told men that they knew not everything, because the good men amongst men were then frightened of dogma. Frightened of a complacence that all questions were answered, of a tolerance of the 'minor variations and deviations' of the truth. You were no philosopher then, but you helped men on their way to philosophy. You provided something much needed—an opponent albeit a weak, puny and a slithering, slimy one.
Provide doubt and uncertainty in copious amounts, provide fear and doom O prophet. So that the little men may be drawn to your way so that the good men may see further, their vision uncluttered and their bodies unhurt.
Clear the path for the good man, O street sweeper for mankind.
Have you been stressed for long? Have you deceived men for long enough, that you are tired today? Is that why you have given up tending and safeguarding your elaborate and never-ending fountain of intuition, feeling and devoutness, finally to rest as a wayfarer yourself?
Is that why you just chant hymns pay obeisance to idols, safeguard traditions and customs, perform rituals and extend your hand in begging, today? Are you finally tired, of all the deception and the knavery? Have you made it easier for yourself? Don't you deal with men any longer? Do you worship the idols yourself ?
Do the idols, intended to take away from you, the burden of deceiving men, rest on your shoulders too heavily now? Do you believe in God yourself now, O saint with matted hair and wooden footwear? Have you believed in your own tricks, you blood-slurping barnacle?
Poor little blood-sucking barnacle.
You cause me to be obvious again, pitiable worm. You evoke nothing but pity from me, you slothful sophist.
Yet you have your place amongst men. Take the little men away from the man, before its too late. Wake up from your slumber, you frail oldster, you've got your work to do. Set the small monsters and goons against themselves, arm them with love for each other. Arm the delicate ones with fake claws and fangs that they may slay each other.
Be something becoming of your evil, of your conniving. Stand tall for that vice in you. Stand tall so man may fight you, fight himself in you, and emerge with real fangs and claws.
Let me speak your language, Old one, let me do so once: Let me tell you; "Do your duty". You did "invaluable service" to men, you taught them in reverse.
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