Prophets have light <br />Screwed tight in their eyes. They cannot see the darkness <br />Inside their own loincloth. Their speech has grace <br />And their voice tenderness. When prophets arrive <br />Dogs do not bark. They only wag their tails <br />Like newspaper reporters. Their tongues hang out <br />And drool as profusely <br />As editorials. <br />Crowds in the street <br />Split up like watermelons <br />When prophets arrive. <br /> <br />But there are times when even the fuse of heavenly stars is blown <br />Space boils like a forgotten kettle <br />The screw comes off from the eyes <br />And the blinded prophet is stunned <br />It is then that he comprehends the spiral staircase of heaven made of iron <br />The complexity of its architecture. <br /> <br />It is the first time that he apprehends God's inhuman boredom <br />And the size of His shoes. The weight of His foot. <br />And the total monopoly reflected <br />In His every movement. It is then that he realises that <br />His journey so far is only <br />The space and time of His almighty yawn. <br /> <br />[Translated from Shesha: Selected Marathi Poems]<br /><br />Dilip Chitre<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prophets-2/
