The Singing Caravan: A Sufi TaleVansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Religion
The Singing Caravan: A Sufi Tale
Vansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Poetry
_Poor friend, this alien hungry land
Has closed her lips upon her prey.
The tree is spoiled into her hand;
She sucks the brook's thin veins away._
_A sterner voice than bade you come
To reap the tears that exiles sow
Has called you to her longer home,
That neither bids nor lets you go._
_Seven times you baulked her lawless laws,
And foiled the customs of the year;
But Death defends the tyrant's cause,
And makes the silent court his lair._
_The lease of life, that none can own,
Is written on her agent's roll;
And from the desert and the sown
He takes a harsh and equal toll,_
_High-handed, scorning code or text.
No hope the debtor's gaol unlocks.
A friend appeals? He is the next
To occupy the narrow box._
_The witness cowers, pale with fear,
When Death the stalker passes by;
And only prays he may not hear
That ugly sound--a victim's cry._
_One weeps; his eyes are wet as long
As on Death's hand the blood is wet.
He says: "The King can do no wrong!"
And craves permission to forget._
_How briefly to an echo clings
The memory of these solemn days,
The thought of those tremendous things
That Death implies but never says._
_An hour ago we laid you down.
The tender, tardy autumn rain
Is dried within the dusty town,
And we are at our rounds again._
With every round our spirits sank in bodies lean and members lank.
I saw the soul of man, a cave, a wick that smouldered and smelled
rank.
Men's fluid facts may wash the grime from pictures of a distant
time,
But I can paint the truth in one small touch: our poets ceased to
rhyme.
Such was the army's hopelessness. I understood, who once had seen
Our fading gardener rouse himself to kick and curse the wolf-cub,
Life.
I would not let my feet desert, but oh the woods--the woods of home
That bent and beckoned in the damp zephyr in vain! I could not
stoop
To play false in an enterprise however mad, if once begun.
Besides another miracle was wrought in me. I was in love.
I was enamoured of dear Christ; His utter beauty struck me dumb,
His face alone could compensate for scenes that almost made me long
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account