Prophets

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