Book 1, Chapter Seven: The Ascent, Pages 167 and 168

The oracle would have been straightforward,
if not for the bleating and struggling of the sacrificial lamb —  a poor prognosis —
as it is led to altar under Alexander’s knife.

As its blood pools into the bowl
and flows into the earth
the river
the sky
as war wages on,
somewhere, far away, my friends,
in a place that is neither here the river or the sky from which Alexander fell
(a place our pilgrims have not come to yet),
under the great banyan tree
a philosopher speaks.

“How much land does a man need?”

The voice of Coenus echoes, from another time and place:
Are you not satisfied, Alexander?

The philosopher continues,
“When the only land you can claim is the ground on which your two feet stand
and even that
is fleeting.”

Coenus’s voice assents.
No more.

The angels ring once more, in another time, another place:
Look down upon the earth, child!

All these voices of warning,
they pool and flow
into the oracle that Alexander has been given.
He scowls unhappily.