Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی

34

At home to loiter never did me please,

A rover I, stranger in every land.

At dawn, the ashes thus addressed the breeze:

‘This desert’s air put out my flaming brand;

Pass gently; scatter me not with thy hand;

I yet recall the caravans s unease.’

My tears, like dew, trickled upon the sand,

I, too, being dust on the world’s passages.

Then in my heart I heard a soft voice sing:

The stream of time did from my fountain spring.

The past is all my fever and fire of yore,

The future all that I am yearning for:

Think not upon thy dust,

O think no more—

Lo, by the life,

I know no perishing!