Milk and Meat

I'm in the foothills,
and they are wilder than the lush, green valleys;
they are not as rocky as the heights I hope to climb.

I look forward
and see how much farther I have to go.
I look back
and see how far I have come.

Voices from above call to me:
Come to us! Come, and know!
Voices from below cling to me:
How could you leave us? Have you no heart?

All that is there--my family, my home--
cries out in indignation, shaming me.

O little village, o little people,
will you not come with me?
You are lovely, but I cannot stay.
Stronger voices call to me.
The valley has grown too small, too soft,
and my life there became a frustrating struggle
not to strain my bonds.

I would have liked to have shown you
the things I could see, the things I could hear,
but you do not want to look or to listen.

I want to love you.
Please do not force me to cut myself off from you.

It stings me with guilt to admit this,
but you are smaller than I.
You want me to think well of you,
to diminish myself,
but Truth can be denied only so long.

Goodbye, then;
there are better friends above.