To Abu al-ʻAlaʼ
In thy fountained peristyles of Reason Glows the light and flame of desert noons; And in the cloister of thy pensive Fancy Wisdom burns the spikenard of her moons.
Closed by Fate the portals of the dwelling Of thy sight, the light thus inward flowed; And on the shoulders of the crouching Darkness Thou hast risen to the highest road.
I have seen thee walking with Canopus Through the stellar spaces of the night; I have heard thee asking thy Companion, “Where be now my staff, and where thy light?”
Abu al-ʻAlaʼ, in the heaving darkness, Didst thou not the whisperings hear of me? In thy star-lit wilderness, my Brother, Didst thou not a burdened shadow see?
I have walked and I have slept beside thee, I have laughed and I have wept as well; I have heard the voices of thy silence Melting in thy Jannat and thy hell.
I remember, too, that once the Saki Filled the antique cup and gave it thee; Now, filled with the treasures of thy wisdom, Thou dost pass that very cup to me.
By the God of thee, my Syrian Brother, Which is best, the Saki’s cup or thine? Which the mystery divine uncovers— If the cover covers aught divine.
And if it lies hid in the soul of silence Like incense in the dust of ambergris, Wouldst thou burn it to perfume the terror Of the caverns of the dried-up seas?
