The Singing Caravan: A Sufi TaleVansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Religion
The Singing Caravan: A Sufi Tale
Vansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Poetry
_It is our holy land, and we, the guests
Of passion, brand all other hosts as base.
The bees have led us to their treasure-chests,
A foxglove-sceptre and an hyacinth-mace,
The meadow's fleeting broidery and lace.
Their heaven like ours is nigh to vulgar jests.
A blossom's goal and glory is to grace
The little space between a woman's breasts._
_Prince, be content and choose your resting-place,
Ere we be all forgotten with our quests,
And this thin earth go crumbling into space,
The little space between a woman's breasts._
Thereat was scandal, and a priest exclaimed that man was half a
beast.
I could have told him that before. Man was the half I like the
least.
To obviate a sinful fate the monks laid on us many weeks
Of penance, wasting us the more with these inventions of the
Greeks.
Some paid in cash, some chose the lash--their backs were pitiful to
see--
While Bishop Adhémar of Puy recited magic formulæ
That lurched us forward to our doom. We cleft the sultanate of
Roum,
Calling for bread. The peasants fled. We swept the country like a
broom.
Our armed migration choked the road. It ran ahead, a stream that
flowed
Uphill to glory, so it seemed; and so imagination strode--
O Jack o' lantern!--into the unknown. The Virgin on a silver
throne,
Our leaders swore, went on before us. I saw nothing but the Rhone,
The impulsive Rhone that tumbles down, and breaks clean through the
grey-walled town.
I heard it rustle in its bed where others heard the Virgin's gown.
I blamed the foeman for my thirst, for sandstorm, flies, heat,
scurvy--cursed
Them. Piles of grievance fumed until the red fire kindled. Madness
burst
All bounds, and capered in the glare that wrapped us round like
Nessus' shirt.
Each day 'twas there with yards to spare, and would not tear. How
blue can hurt!
In my delirium I smelt a mirage, heard the swallows skim
Above the reeds where angels knelt with envious eyes to watch me
swim.
The preacher said Jehovah's cloud and pillar would go with us. Yea,
The sky was on our heads alway. The sun rose up and cried aloud,
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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