It feels like going mad, this following –
The voice from the starry night, the tent pegs pulled,
Camels tracking through a dusty haze,
The dawn on unknown dunes-the hollowing
Out of normal, ordinary days,
Like meal poured from a sack, till now we hold
Only the echoes of a voice. He told
Us, Go until you reach the promised place,
And Abram went. We’ve all gone, echoing
Each camp with the next one in the maze.
I watch him through the doorway, hallowing
the dusk with dreams, maddeningly bold.
Abram builds his altars, feels the stone;
But I am left in half-staked tents, alone.
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