Dear Mashgiach you said it a million times,
and had us say it at least one hundred times after you.
But I only said it once.
Just once I used it to make a point,
maybe that was the problem.
Right there, on the top of that mountain
you told us, in a tune, that all is vanity.
At the bottom of the mountain was a soccer field;
We used to hear the roars of the crowd while we tried to focus
on the long text.
a bunch of people running after a ball.
screaming because you got someone to fall and trip.
But you know, I once went down the mountain;
I needed a cup of coffee, to keep me awake for a night full of studying.
I passed the soccer field
when the fans were emptying out the stadium.
Someone was carrying a cup and others were gathering around him,
Did you know there is a score board at the stadium?
they write the scores there of every team.
They change the score throughout the game,
then someone wins.
Did you know that someone wins in the end?
they get a big cup
and a chance to compete again
with a better team.
But you know, Mashgiach, most people do it
for just an hour or so every week.
The rest of the time
they live their lives through comparison to the game.
For only an hour or so a week they have a controlled world
amidst the chaos they leave behind.
And find power and strength
by calling someone’s name.
They roar for an hour or so.
then they face their quiet homes.
They cheer for an hour or so,
until they get back to their silent laments
that are bigger than the whole stadium,
bigger than the whole game.
And when someone from the crowd
succeeds during the week.
She remembers the game She scored,
even when her success is smaller
than the shouts of the fans she heard,
for an hour or so last week.
The game last for an hour or so a week,
than the fabric of the crowd
falls back in to single threads
lost in a hay taller
than the grass of a soccer field.
But, back on the mountain,
the roars of texts lasts all week.
We never leave the stadium.
Nobody scores, nobody falls,
nobody gets called by name.
Nothing gets referenced to nothing,
they shaved the grass of the whole field.
You live and die running
to kick a ball you can't see,
and to live a metaphor you can't construe.
On top of the mountain the game lasts a whole week,
and the fabric of the crowd is never pulled to thread.
You don't see a guy leaving with his cup;
for there is no cup,
there is no leaving,
truth is there isn't even a guy.
There is just a crowd cheering,
cheers that can only come from a crowd
who never tried a lament.
Cheers that have no chaos
to contrast to.
I see the soccer field
It is vanity,
for an hour or so every week.
I see the mountain top
It is vanity,
for ever and ever.