Shifting, shifting; never still for a second. Unearthing there, burying here.
With what end?
And doubtless Babar heard the oft told tale of the Muâzzim of Kâr, and of the minaret of the mosque which the sand can never hide for long; which even in these later days the dry biting winds of the desert lay bare, ever and anon, until the golden final of its blue dome shines bright as ever over the wide plain.
Perhaps,--being a poet born--he may have tried to put the legend into verse with better success than the following:
The Preacher preached; his words were austere
So was his Life. "Oh! sinners, hear!
I oft have warned you--oft and amain,
Gentle and stern; yet all in vain.
From off my feet by order of God
Shake I the dust in which I've trod.
I rend my garments, go on my way.
Not for my soul His Judgment Day.
No more I preach, no more will I warn;
Wait till the resurrection morn!"
He left the pulpit; garments he rent;
Forth from the Lord's own House he went.
"Thou com'st with me," he said as he strode
Past the Muâzzim. "Thine the road
Of Mercy too." The singer bowed,
Bit at his lips, then said aloud:
"The Grace of God I cannot gainsay,
Fain would I go, fain would I stay,
Once more I'd waken sinners to prayer."
Frowning the Priest said "Fool! beware
Our God is Fire! He burns and He rends,
Message of Peace, once only sends."
The singer shivered. "So be it, yet
Prayers must be called from the minaret.
Yet once again singing must rise
Out of the night to dawning skies."
The Preacher spat. "It lies on thy head."
Gripped at his purse; smiled as he fled.
* * * * *
The minaret was slender and high,
Blue was its dome; blue like the sky,
Its gilded finial shone like a star
Over the sinful town of Kâr.
The singer climbed its narrowing stair,
Stood in his place, then breathed a prayer:
"O God, most great, no atom of sand
Slips through Thy Fingers' grip; Thy Hand
Heeds not man's worth. Thou fillest his need.
Wake those who sleep, Dear God I plead!"
* * * * *