His prophesy spoke of fertile soil and yet the prophet stopped here.
Down below an infinite plain, unkempt, undulates
In the summer breeze. When the night falls we spot no fires.
The land is almost ours.
His promises kept us go. Why we don’t we advance?
Bread stales in the scorching sun. When the fog lifts
A land of plenty spreads before our eyes. Nightfall veils it out
Of our tattered existence.
Changed since we came here, the man has. Shrouded in silence.
Hardly any water left. Women are pregnant. There creeks glitter
In the sun, fat cattle graze, orchards call for tending.
Time is ripe like a melon.
To what end does he keep us here? Rile brews among the tents.
Affluence is at hand. No old fool tells us now what to do.