Trespassing Herdsman

Ibrahim saw Abraham try to spit But about the rudeness thought not a bit: Herdsman coarsely attacked with a spittle And it had no meaning or just little, Whereas it was Abraham’s wished battle Against his teeming hundred cattle just placidly grazing on his farmland, For gratitude discharging dung on sand! Ibrahim, the black like burnt kettle, Would, confronted, give a fight of mettle And might, at last, on farmland just settle, Abraham leaving to helpless rattle On a subject of stampede by cattle And Lord God knows that’s as bad as fatal… With each fresh eye contact fresh spittle: Abraham for big ones not little; For the sure- to- fight Ibrahim herdsman whom no folk might ever beat man to man.