This Earth is home
to eight billion visionaries.
Their revelations begin
with a baby's first cry,
and then their missions unfold,
each
their own messiah.

At times, prophecies concur,
forming fleeting alliances:
where no one sows salt,
mushroom colonies strike—
each member with its stem,
a cocked tricorn hat,
and live performances.
"Now my turn—gimme the mike!"

Every oracle's merit
is gauged by impartial Something
beyond face,
beyond sounding.