Kitabı oku: «The Luzumiyat of Abu'l-Ala», sayfa 3

THE LUZUMIYAT OF ABU’L-ALA

I

 
The sable wings of Night pursuing day
Across the opalescent hills, display
The wondrous star-gems which the fiery suns
Are scattering upon their fiery way.
 

II

 
O my Companion, Night is passing fair,
Fairer than aught the dawn and sundown wear;
And fairer, too, than all the gilded days
Of blond Illusion and its golden snare.
 

III

 
Hark, in the minarets muazzens call
The evening hour that in the interval
Of darkness Ahmad might remembered be, —
Remembered of the Darkness be they all.
 

IV

 
And hear the others who with cymbals try
To stay the feet of every passer-by:
The market-men along the darkling lane
Are crying up their wares. – Oh! let them cry.
 

V

 
Mohammed or Messiah! Hear thou me,
The truth entire nor here nor there can be;
How should our God who made the sun and moon
Give all his light to One, I cannot see.
 

VI

 
Come, let us with the naked Night now rest
And read in Allah’s Book the sonnet best:
The Pleiads – ah, the Moon from them departs, —
She draws her veil and hastens toward the west.
 

VII

 
The Pleiads follow; and our Ethiop Queen,
Emerging from behind her starry screen,
Will steep her tresses in the saffron dye
Of dawn, and vanish in the morning sheen.
 

VIII

 
The secret of the day and night is in
The constellations, which forever spin
Around each other in the comet-dust; —
The comet-dust and humankind are kin.
 

IX

 
But whether of dust or fire or foam, the glaive
Of Allah cleaves the planet and the wave
Of this mysterious Heaven-Sea of life,
And lo! we have the Cradle of the Grave.
 

X

 
The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain,
Who in the markets of this narrow lane
Bordered of darkness, ever give and take
In equal measure – what’s the loss or gain?
 

XI

 
Ay, like the circles which the sun doth spin
Of gossamer, we end as we begin;
Our feet are on the heads of those that pass,
But ever their Graves around our Cradles grin.
 

XII

 
And what avails it then that Man be born
To joy or sorrow? – why rejoice or mourn?
The doling doves are calling to the rose;
The dying rose is bleeding o’er the thorn.
 

XIII

 
And he the Messenger, who takes away
The faded garments, purple, white, and gray
Of all our dreams unto the Dyer, will
Bring back new robes to-morrow – so they say.
 

XIV

 
But now the funeral is passing by,
And in its trail, beneath this moaning sky,
The howdaj comes, – both vanish into night;
To me are one, the sob, the joyous cry.
 

XV

 
With tombs and ruined temples groans the land
In which our forbears in the drifting sand
Arise as dunes upon the track of Time
To mark the cycles of the moving hand
 

XVI

 
Of Fate. Alas! and we shall follow soon
Into the night eternal or the noon;
The wayward daughters of the spheres return
Unto the bosom of their sun or moon.
 

XVII

 
And from the last days of Thamud and ‘Ad
Up to the first of Hashem’s fearless lad,
Who smashed the idols of his mighty tribe,
What idols and what heroes Death has had!
 

XVIII

 
Tread lightly, for the mighty that have been
Might now be breathing in the dust unseen;
Lightly, the violets beneath thy feet
Spring from the mole of some Arabian queen.
 

XIX

 
Many a grave embraces friend and foe
Behind the curtain of this sorry show
Of love and hate inscrutable; alas!
The Fates will always reap the while they sow.
 

XX

 
The silken fibre of the fell Zakkum,
As warp and woof, is woven on the loom
Of life into a tapestry of dreams
To decorate the chariot-seat of Doom.
 

XXI

 
And still we weave, and still we are content
In slaving for the sovereigns who have spent
The savings of the toiling of the mind
Upon the glory of Dismemberment.
 

XXII

 
Nor king nor slave the hungry Days will spare;
Between their fangéd Hours alike we fare:
Anon they bound upon us while we play
Unheeding at the threshold of their Lair.
 

XXIII

 
Then Jannat or Juhannam? From the height
Of reason I can see nor fire nor light
That feeds not on the darknesses; we pass
From world to world, like shadows through the night.
 

XXIV

 
Or sleep – and shall it be eternal sleep
Somewhither in the bosom of the deep
Infinities of cosmic dust, or here
Where gracile cypresses the vigil keep!
 

XXV

 
Upon the threshing-floor of life I burn
Beside the Winnower a word to learn;
And only this: Man’s of the soil and sun,
And to the soil and sun he shall return.
 

XXVI

 
And like a spider’s house or sparrow’s nest,
The Sultan’s palace, though upon the crest
Of glory’s mountain, soon or late must go:
Ay, all abodes to ruin are addrest.
 

XXVII

 
So, too, the creeds of Man: the one prevails
Until the other comes; and this one fails
When that one triumphs; ay, the lonesome world
Will always want the latest fairy-tales.
 

XXVIII

 
Seek not the Tavern of Belief, my friend,
Until the Sakis there their morals mend;
A lie imbibed a thousand lies will breed,
And thou’lt become a Saki in the end.
 

XXIX

 
By fearing whom I trust I find my way
To truth; by trusting wholly I betray
The trust of wisdom; better far is doubt
Which brings the false into the light of day.
 

XXX

 
Or wilt thou commerce have with those who make
Rugs of the rainbow, rainbows of the snake,
Snakes of a staff, and other wondrous things? —
The burning thirst a mirage can not slake.
 

XXXI

 
Religion is a maiden veiled in prayer,
Whose bridal gifts and dowry those who care
Can buy in Mutakallem’s shop of words
But I for such, a dirham can not spare.
 

XXXII

 
Why linger here, why turn another page?
Oh! seal with doubt the whole book of the age;
Doubt every one, even him, the seeming slave
Of righteousness, and doubt the canting sage.
 

XXXIII

 
Some day the weeping daughters of Hadil
Will say unto the bulbuls: “Let’s appeal
To Allah in behalf of Brother Man
Who’s at the mercy now of Ababil.”
 

XXXIV

 
Of Ababil! I would the tale were true, —
Would all the birds were such winged furies too;
The scourging and the purging were a boon
For me, O my dear Brothers, and for you.
 

XXXV

 
Methinks Allah divides me to complete
His problem, which with Xs is replete;
For I am free and I am too in chains
Groping along the labyrinthine street.
 

XXXVI

 
And round the Well how oft my Soul doth grope
Athirst; but lo! my Bucket hath no Rope:
I cry for water, and the deep, dark Well
Echoes my wailing cry, but not my hope.
 

XXXVII

 
Ah, many have I seen of those who fell
While drawing, with a swagger, from the Well;
They came with Rope and Bucket, and they went
Empty of hand another tale to tell.
 

XXXVIII

 
The I in me standing upon the brink
Would leap into the Well to get a drink;
But how to rise once in the depth, I cry,
And cowardly behind my logic slink.
 

XXXIX

 
And she: “How long must I the burden bear?
How long this tattered garment must I wear?”
And I: “Why wear it? Leave it here, and go
Away without it – little do I care.”
 

XL

 
But once when we were quarreling, the door
Was opened by a Visitor who bore
Both Rope and Pail; he offered them and said:
“Drink, if you will, but once, and nevermore.”
 

XLI

 
One draught, more bitter than the Zakkum tree,
Brought us unto the land of mystery
Where rising Sand and Dust and Flame conceal
The door of every Caravanseri.
 

XLII

 
We reach a door and there the legend find.
“To all the Pilgrims of the Human Mind:
Knock and pass on!” We knock and knock and knock;
But no one answers save the moaning wind.
 

XLIII

 
How like a door the knowledge we attain,
Which door is on the bourne of the Inane;
It opens and our nothingness is closed, —
It closes and in darkness we remain.
 

XLIV

 
Hither we come unknowing, hence we go;
Unknowing we are messaged to and fro;
And yet we think we know all things of earth
And sky – the suns and stars we think we know.
 

XLV

 
Apply thy wit, O Brother, here and there
Upon this and upon that; but beware
Lest in the end – ah, better at the start
Go to the Tinker for a slight repair.
 

XLVI

 
And why so much ado, and wherefore lay
The burden of the years upon the day
Of thy vain dreams? Who polishes his sword
Morning and eve will polish it away.
 

XLVII

 
I heard it whispered in the cryptic streets
Where every sage the same dumb shadow meets:
“We are but words fallen from the lipe of Time
Which God, that we might understand, repeats.”
 

XLVIII

 
Another said: “The creeping worm hath shown,
In her discourse on human flesh and bone,
That Man was once the bed on which she slept —
The walking dust was once a thing of stone.”
 

XLIX

 
And still another: “We are coins which fade
In circulation, coins which Allah made
To cheat Iblis: the good and bad alike
Are spent by Fate upon a passing shade.”
 

L

 
And in the pottery the potter cried,
As on his work shone all the master’s pride —
“How is it, Rabbi, I, thy slave, can make
Such vessels as nobody dare deride?”
 

LI

 
The Earth then spake: “My children silent be;
Same are to God the camel and the flea:
He makes a mess of me to nourish you,
Then makes a mess of you to nourish me.”
 

LII

 
Now, I believe the Potter will essay
Once more the Wheel, and from a better clay
Will make a better Vessel, and perchance
A masterpiece which will endure for aye.
 

LIII

 
With better skill he even will remould
The scattered potsherds of the New and Old;
Then you and I will not disdain to buy,
Though in the mart of Iblis they be sold.
 

LIV

 
Sooth I have told the masters of the mart
Of rusty creeds and Babylonian art
Of magic. Now the truth about myself —
Here is the secret of my wincing heart.
 

LV

 
I muse, but in my musings I recall
The days of my iniquity; we’re all —
An arrow shot across the wilderness,
Somewhither, in the wilderness must fall.
 

LVI

 
I laugh, but in my laughter-cup I pour
The tears of scorn and melancholy sore;
I who am shattered by the hand of Doubt,
Like glass to be remoulded nevermore.
 

LVII

 
I wheedle, too, even like my slave Zeidun,
Who robs at dawn his brother, and at noon
Prostrates himself in prayer – ah, let us pray
That Night might blot us and our sins, and soon.
 

LVIII

 
But in the fatal coils, without intent,
We sin; wherefore a future punishment?
They say the metal dead a deadly steel
Becomes with Allah’s knowledge and consent.
 

LIX

 
And even the repentant sinner’s tear
Falling into Juhannam’s very ear,
Goes to its heart, extinguishes its fire
For ever and forever, – so I hear.
 

LX

 
Between the white and purple Words of Time
In motley garb with Destiny I rhyme:
The colored glasses to the water give
The colors of a symbolry sublime.
 

LXI

 
How oft, when young, my brothers I would shun
If their religious feelings were not spun
Of my own cobweb, which I find was but
A spider’s revelation of the sun.
 

LXII

 
Now, mosques and churches – even a Kaaba Stone,
Korans and Bibles – even a martyr’s bone, —
All these and more my heart can tolerate,
For my religion’s love, and love alone.
 

LXIII

 
To humankind, O Brother, consecrate
Thy heart, and shun the hundred Sects that prate
About the things they little know about —
Let all receive thy pity, none thy hate.
 

LXIV

 
The tavern and the temple also shun,
For sheikh and libertine in sooth are one;
And when the pious knave begins to pule,
The knave in purple breaks his vow anon.
 

LXV

 
“The wine’s forbidden,” say these honest folk,
But for themselves the law they will revoke;
The snivelling sheikh says he’s without a garb,
When in the tap-house he had pawned his cloak.
 

LXVI

 
Or in the house of lust. The priestly name
And priestly turban once were those of Shame —
And Shame is preaching in the pulpit now —
If pulpits tumble down, I’m not to blame.
 

LXVII

 
For after she declaims upon the vows
Of Faith, she pusillanimously bows
Before the Sultan’s wine-empurpled throne,
While he and all his courtezans carouse.
 

LXVIII

 
Carouse, ye sovereign lords! The wheel will roll
Forever to confound and to console:
Who sips to-day the golden cup will drink
Mayhap to-morrow in a wooden bowl —
 

LXIX

 
And silent drink. The tumult of our mirth
Is worse than our mad welcoming of birth: —
The thunder hath a grandeur, but the rains,
Without the thunder, quench the thirst of Earth.
 

LXX

 
The Prophets, too, among us come to teach,
Are one with those who from the pulpit preach;
They pray, and slay, and pass away, and yet
Our ills are as the pebbles on the beach.
 

LXXI

 
And though around the temple they should run
For seventy times and seven, and in the sun
Of mad devotion drool, their prayers are still
Like their desires of feasting-fancies spun.
 

LXXII

 
Oh! let them in the marshes grope, or ride