Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی

17

Where is the Arab, to revive

The old night-revelry,

And where the Persian, to bring alive

The love-lute’s minstrelsy?

Under the Sufi elder’s gown

The flagon is bare and dry;

Alas, for none can tell in the town

Where young red wine’s to buy.

Every man in this grassy mead

Fashions and takes his rest,

But where is he, ah, where indeed,

Who will make, and burn, his nest?

A thousand caravan-trains have stared

Like a stranger, and then passed on,

But he that close as a lover dared

To gaze–is there anyone?

Rise like a wave, and surging flow

In the ocean eternally?

Thou seek’st the shore, and dost not know

Where ever the shore may be.

Hither (for in thy tendril’s vein

The fresh young blood doth bound)

Hither hasten, nor ask again

Where the Magian wine is found.

Twist into one vast war-array

All ages that ever were;

Later and sooner are passed away;

Where now is Time, ah, where?