When my brother went up to the holy mountain,
I stayed on the farm with our herd of goats.
In his absence our goats became speckled,
and they were fat and rich with milk.
I used to study the horizon for a sign.
I wanted my brother to come back,
come back in a cloud of white light.
But he didn't come back.
For many years I lighted the incense,
and prepared the house. There was great love,
and all our goats were in order in the barn.
But my brother did not come back.
Our barn was rich with milk. Love was in the house,
and our goats were fat and rich with milk.
Then one day, weary and sick from searching,
lo, my brother came back. He came back!
He came back in a cloud of light.
The cloud was white and his face pale.
He was ragged and lean and pale.
He had been wandering and searching.
And then it became different. We struggled,
my brother and I. Love paled, became dark.
Our goats bowed down, trembled and died.
Their throats rattled and they died.
So my brother and I went up to the mountain.
I don't know who is tending our house.
Sometimes I see a herd on the distant plain.
They know not us, but they thrive. They thrive!