He came looking for me, that king. He knew
what I could do. Later, his strength revealed
itself. He was tall. He was tired. I screamed
because a ghost arrived—they never do—
I call, but they’re just dead. I often dream
they come but—until that day—tombs stayed sealed.
The king’s poor head had no time to go gray
like mine. I killed a calf for him. He—stayed.
Don’t think I’m powerless. I’m not a fake.
But voices tickle air—that’s how I work
most nights. That time, a man I saw buried
stood right here. Forget it. Let me just bake
flatbread. That king’s dead now. Don’t get carried
away. Prophets—kings—they stay under earth.