The Singing Caravan: A Sufi TaleVansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Religion
The Singing Caravan: A Sufi Tale
Vansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Poetry
We entered reverent, barefoot; slew three livelong nights and
mornings through,
Then paused to sing a thanksgiving. We massacred the morrow too.
And I was glad a Christian lad could boast of some small
suffering _ad
Majorem Dei gloriam_. I only longed to burn Baghdad.
Nay, I can say I never hid to chamber as my fellows did.
I felt my conscience clear as frost, and touched no woman--God
forbid.
I set my contrite soul apart with mass, procession, penance, rites
That took me out to see the sights, brushing ecstatic lanes athwart
The quiddering mob with tears of joy--my tutor's phrase was hoi
polloi--
Though few were left. Some Greeks of ours confused Jerusalem with
Troy.
But most the bestial German louts made even their hardest allies
sick;
They ran to mutilate the quick and sniff the dead with joyous
snouts.
Shriven, forgiven, we embraced each stone that Christ had touched,
and placed
Such relics under treble guard. One note in our rejoicings jarred.
It seemed some types of Jewish dog escaped the flaming synagogue,
And their ingratitude was base. They joined to form a
wailing-place.
I heard them as I roamed among blind alleys dark and overhung
By one-eyed dens. With whining nose against the wall the pack gave
tongue:
_Behold Thy people, Lord, a race of mourners.
Through this Thy sacred dwelling-place they creep
Like strangers. Hearken, Lord, in holes and corners
We sit alone and weep._
_For Thy decree, most terrible and holy,
That as the fathers sow the sons shall reap,
For all Thy just affliction of the lowly,
We sit alone and weep._
_For all the glory that is now departed,
For all the stones that Thou hast made an heap,
Yea, for the city of the broken-hearted,
We sit alone and weep._
_For all the wealth wherewith Thou hadst endowed her,
For all our shepherds gone astray like sheep,
For all Thy temple's jewels ground to powder,
We sit alone and weep._
_Because our soul is chastened as with lashes,
Because Thine anger like a stormy deep
Goes over us, in sackcloth and in ashes
We sit alone and weep._
Nobody gave them heed; indeed each man was thinking how to speed
His interests, and if the prey would satisfy ambition or need.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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