No star, no moon, the gloom of the night
Making the snow peaks rim with light
The purpling sky, the darkening world.
Was it a sand grain sharp that whirled
To touch the watcher keen on his cheek?
Waiting so patient until a streak
Of cold grey dawn should come to the sky
Bringing the time for clamant cry
"Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!
Sleepers! awake! Prayer time has come to you!
Awake! Far better Prayer than Sleep to you!
Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!"
* * * * *
The night was silent: that was a gust
Wind hot as fire, laden with dust.
The singer wiped salt tears from his eyes--
God! if the sand-storm should arise,
The storm of sand that comes like a pall
Gliding soft as snow flakes to fall
On good, on bad. "Oh! sleepers awake!
Waken and fly!" His voice could make
Small sound against the sound of the storm
Whistling the sand grains, "Rise and form
In serried order! carry the town!
Bury each fool, knave, sinner, clown,
Who sleeps unheeding God's gracious grace,
Mercy is tired. Go! leave no trace
Of saint or sinner within this place."
* * * * *
The singer fought for breath as he prayed.
"Lord! give me one more chance," he said.
And lo! the sand-storm faltered away;
Still as the grave the city lay.
The singer he sang as never before,
Piercing through gateway, wall and door
The clamant cry. "Oh! sleepers rise!
Better is prayer than sleep! Be wise!"
Awakened all; they saw and they fled
Forth from the town, bewildered
Forth from the town, bewildered
To seek for refuge far from the sands
Out of the wind. But still he stands
And still he sings. Perchance there be one
Soul in the town who might be won!
The storm fresh-gathered swept on its task,
Covered all things with deadly mask
Of sand high-piled like waves of the sea
Till there was naught save sand to see.
No soul was left; no need for him more!
Downwards he crept. He found the door
Was blocked by sand waves! Merciful Heav'n!
Not for his soul was ransom given!
So back he went to the minaret
--Stood in the wind, the sandy fret--
Giving the call. It echoes yet
O'er wastes of sand when the sun has set.
When shifting winds in gusts and in whirls
Part of the dead town's shroud unfurls,
When dimly blue the minaret shows
Dim as a lamp its finial glows,
And soft and low and faint as a sigh
Comes to the ear that clamant cry,
"Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!
Awake! Awake! Prayer time has come to you!
Awake! Better Prayer than Sleep to you!
Ul-sul-lah-to-khair-un-mun-nun-nu!"