Jacob named his destination Goshen,
land of light, free of plague, war and sin,
there shepherds grazed their flocks in peace.
Halt, said Nahor, an old man, met at a well,
such a land is only found within.
Tapped his chest, stiffly,
his hand bony, fingers thin,
robe grubby, smelt of camel,
desert wood fire smoke,
sand and dust encrusted skin.
Jacob was impressed, but not convinced.
In the city, what is wrong?
Nahor questioned him.
Within high stone walls, a man is safe,
at least from the invader’s sword, isolation.
Women you want may be beyond your reach,
but still there, at their windows,
glittering with jewels,
in the market place, passing by.
I speak as one who has travelled many lands,
stood on shores, looked on seas
where dolphins swim.
Jacob said no more, led his tribe away.
Nahor wondered later,
if he should have taken up his staff,
and followed him.


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