The Golden Road
We who with songs beguile your brain,
Swear beauty lives though lilies die;
We poets of a proud old strain
Who sing to hearts, yet mystify--
What shall we tell you? Wondrous tales
Of stars and sands and caravans
Where n'er the rose of sunset pales,
Nor winds, nor shadows halt advance;
Of there where khans and bearded kings
Safeguard the passes, steppes bestrode--
Close round their breasts the laurel clings,
These lords along the Golden Road.
Beguile you? Death has no repose
So warm, so deep as desert sand
Which hides the beauty, faith of those
Who ply the road to Samarkand.
Oh, how they reign so peaceably,
These conquerors, while poets air,
Sing of the time when they, when we,
When all shall whiten here or there;
When caravans that cross the plain
On dauntless feet and silver bells
Put forth no more for glory, gain,
No solace take from palm-grit wells;
Great markets by the sea shut fast
Calm Sundays that go on and on;
When lovers find their peace at last
And night no longer turns to dawn.
. . .
Away! We're ready to a man;
Our camels sniff the eve fresh-clad.
Lead on! Lead on the caravan,
O, Merchant-Princes of Bagdad.
We've Indian carpets dark as wine,
Fine turbans, sashes, gowns and veils,
Grand tapestries of famed design,
Embroideries with nightengales;
Rose-candy, aromatic nard,
Sharp terebinth, sweet oils and spice,
Thick jams meticulously jarred--
As Allah eats in Paradise;
Dear manuscripts in peacock styles
By Ali of Damascus, swords
Engraved with storks and crocodiles,
And beaten necklaces, for Lords...
As supple, soft as spring lamb skin,
Of red wine hues and ochre blent,
Prayer rugs are spread before each sin
From where due homage shall be sent.
By Allah's law knees come to rest
Upon the weave, each foot and hand;
To softened hues each brow is pressed,
Aligned on Mecca, Kahbah, and
Thus prostrate, each man makes his plea
To Allah, five times every sun,
And to Muhammad: devotee,
The Prophet, Islam's chosen one.
We're pilgrims; always we shall go
A litle further, may it be
Beyond blue mountains barred with snow,
Across the angry sands, our sea.
We gnaw the nail of hurry! Now,
Turn eyes to where your children stand,
Your women, mothers, homes. Enow!
The Golden Road to Samarkand.
It's sweet to ride forth from the wells
As giant shadows pass the sand,
Through silence beaten by the bells,
Along the road to Samarkand.
We travel not for trade alone;
By hotter winds our hearts are fanned:
The lust for what should not be known
Along the road to Samarkand.
The gate, O watchman; open night!
Ho, travellers! And whither land?--
From dim-mooned city of delight;
Along the road to Samarkand.
The Portal of Bagdad am I,
The Doorway to Diyarbekir.
The Persian dawn lies far, not nigh,
So linger, listen to my fear.
Pass not beneath, O Caravan;
Or pass not singing. Have you heard
That silence where the endless sand
Brings death to even fleet-winged birds.
Pass not beyond! Men say in grief
In stormy deserts waves a rose
But with no scarlet to her leaf
And from her heart no perfume flows.
Wilt thou bloom red where she buds pale?
And wilt thou sail the desert sea
More fleetly than the wings of birds?
O, Cameleers, pass not from me!
The Sun, who flashes through the head
And paints the shadows round each bier--
That Sun shall eat your fleshless dead.
O, Caravan, this is my fear.
But we have magic merchandise
For weavers--dyes from Isfahan;
A treasure-trove of oil and spice,
Silk coveted by king and khan!
Our God shall guide us camp to camp,
And be our shade from well to well;
His Prophet's star will be our lamp,
Its light to strike each silver bell.
Our God shall keep our bodies pure,
And give us knowledge to endure
This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain,
And bring us out to Life again.
I am the Gate that fears no breach,
The Mihrab of great Bagdad's wall,
The bridge to wonder all beseech--
The Arch of Allah, all in all.
The bolt! O, Keeper of the Gate.
A dawn, a dawn and we art there.
O brother of the beast we hate,
Eat not thy heart with fear and care.
Thine rugs to Mecca ye have turned,
Each anxious heart, each heavy brow.
Ah traders, whither will ye turn
When to the infidels ye bow?
'Tis true we've many miles to steal,
But fleas our only foes to dread.
Homs shall behold our morning meal,
And Hama safely in our bed.
O faithful spirit-pilgrims, rise:
The voices of the souls unborn
Are half adream with Paradise
And night has grown her single horn.
Pass on! Pass on, Doom's Caravan.
I'd not have told ye, fools, so much,
Save that I heard your Singing-man.
Put forth beneath the Prophet's touch!
May Allah make each soul a pearl
Where eighteen thousand aeons pass
That ye shall see the gleaming worlds
As men see dew upon the grass.
And sons of Islam, it may be
That ye shall learn at journey's end
Who walks thy gardens eve on eve,
And bows his head, and calls ye friend.
Thou quest is never ending thirst
To learn of life, as poets must:
Whatever paths we take on earth,
The end is ever dust to dust.
(C) 2-22-96 Charles Sielert
Birth sign: Not entered
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