 THE TOWERS AND THE NIGHT by Amin Rahani read for LibriVox.org by Maliki Orozco over the white ways flood of light over its sea of fiery flowers arose the voice of the ancient knight and the youthful towers. Oh, night of nations past, the towers said, one day stood high your monuments, but now your highest pyramid must lift its head to see the lights that crown our city's brow. But man replied the night, shall crown the stars with flowers of thought divine and write his name upon a monument greater than yours and mine. END OF POEM This recording is in the public domain. THE END AND THE BEGINNING by Amin Rahani read for LibriVox.org by Maliki Orozco THE DEED IS DONE, O KINGS THE BLOOD IS SHED THE SWORD IS BROKEN, BROKEN TO THE CROSS BUT SHE, THE MOTHER ETERNAL OF THE DEAD, THOUGH SORROW-LAIDEN, SMILES AT THE LOSS. YOU GO DOWN GRIND WITH THE BLOOD AND SMOKE OF WORDS, YOUR ARMY'S SCATTERED AND YOUR BANNER'S FURLD. SHE COMES DOWN, COVERED WITH THE DUST OF STARS, AND GIVES HER LIFE AGAIN TO BUILD THE WORLD. END OF POEM This recording is in the public domain. THE CATACLISM BY AMIN RAHANI read for LibriVox.org by Maliki Orozco Even through the city of the dead she passed, her sack of horrors harvest to refill. And low into the untilled world she cast, with a million hands, the black seeds of her will. But in the bone-strewn waste I saw a snail crawling out of the socket of a skull, exultant still, rising from the universal bane to thank the rain. And in the thorny flanks of the riven tomb, gorged yesteryear with the fruits of fear and doubt, the nations bear when their sinews run out, I saw the crocus weave her tender bloom into the ivies-tangled hair, while struggling out of the gloom to praise the air. The cataclysm passing to her goal turned inside out the pockets of the world, not sparing even the altar of the soul, which at the cradle of the soul she hurled. But when at last she fell across the sill of hell, I saw in her incalculable toll a butterfly winging out of the riddled emblem of God toward the sky, rising with the faith free one to serenade the sun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Reflections by Amin Rahani. Read for LibriVox.org by Maliki Orozco. I walked along the countryside at eventide, and everywhere the road was fair with moons of water here and there, into whose heart the grasses spied. And suddenly upon them shone the light of the city's eye, reflected from a bulb on high, which made them and their shadow one. Nay made each moon a mirror seem to serve the dream of tender blades in bending grace a swoon. I walked into the night, and every bode beyond the dark, deserted road was a prattle of light. And I thought of the eye unseen, which sheds its charitable sheen not on our goal, but on the byways of the soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Song of Shiva by Amin Rahani. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. Tis night, all the sirens are silent, all the vultures asleep, and the horns of the tempest are stirring under the deep. Tis night, all the snow-burdened mountains, dream of the sea, and down in the wadi, the river is calling to me. Tis night, all the caves of the spirit shake with desire, and the Orient heavens are saying its lances of fire. They hear in the stillness that covers the land and the sea, the river in the heart of the wadi, calling to me. Tis night, but a night of great joyance, a night of unrest, the night of the birth of the spirit of the east and the west, and the caves and the mountains are dancing on the foam of the sea, for the river inundant is calling, calling to me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Fruits of Death by Amin Rahani Read for LibriVox.org by Becky Bright November 14th, 2018. Said the folded leaves upon the heath, to the opening leaves upon the tree, soon will the wardens of the storm bring us to our mother's sea. Even as they opened yesterday night, our prison doors of destiny, we envy not the birds now nor the dew, to them we leave the forest and to you. The infant leaves thus made reply, but we rejoice that we are here. We stand in the cerulean gate of life to crown the dying year. Him who emancipates we love, he who enchains is also dear. You are the flowers on the storm and we, are the fruits of death upon life's tree. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Constantinople by Amin Rahani Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok When Othman's sword as paleologs is broken and Othman's gods are smitten to the dust and not remains not even a rusty token of their hierarchal cruelty and lust when church and mosque and synagogue shall be, despite the bigot's cry, the zealot's prayer, unbounded in their bounties, all and free, in every heritage divine to share. When thou shalt rise rejoicing in thy loss upon the ruins of a state nefast to reconcile the crescent and the cross and wash thy hands of thine unholy past, when with the faith newborn of east and west, which spans the azure heights of man's desire, the spirit of thy people, long oppressed, is all aglow with its undying fire, when thou thyself, Byzantium, shall stand in the minaret of freedom and thy voice rising above the muassans in the land, bids all the seekers of the light, rejoice, when in thy heart the flame of freedom sings and in thy hand the torch of freedom glows and in thy word the sword of freedom rings and in thy deed the seed of freedom grows. Then shall we call thee mistress of the morn, bride of the straits, queen of the golden horn. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Andalusia. By Amin Rihani. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. Alcazar. There was a rhapsody in all her moods, a child like Grace, a passion unrestrained. Her throne, which Bard and Saki shared, was stained with virgin wine, as with the blood of feuds. And in her lyric woven interludes, epitomizing destiny and time, her spirit hid an opalescent rhyme, the shades of melancholy still eludes. Where ere she trod the rose and bulbul meat, where ere she reveled gardens ever blow, where ere she danced the henna of her feet, yet lends a luster to the poppy's glow. Arabia, dark-eyed, light-hearted, fair, is but a flower in Andalusia's hair. Alhambra. Gods of the silence, still remembering the dying echoes of her lute, bemoan in canticles of golden monotone, her orient splendor, too soon vanishing. And while lions guard her courts, gray eagles wing around her turquoise domes, and seedlings blown from distant lands to her hushed fountains cling. Yay! And the sun himself sits in her throne. Time, once her vassal, lingers near the streams that woo the shadows of her crumbling walls. And, musing of Alhambra's glory, dreams of elegance and power, in myrtle halls, Arabia, once counted of the strong, is but a sigh in Andalusia's song. The mosque, in the bewildering grove of colonnades, once brilliant with a flood of saffron light, poured from ten thousand lanterns day and night, her memory, like Spikenard in the glades of distant Ind or Yemen, never fades, and her devotion, though the ages blight the mystic bloom of her divine delight, still casts on alien altars longing shades. But through the mirabs, which the humble hand of genius wrought, or marbles hollowed deep by knees that only piety could command, I see oblivion coming forth to reap. Arabia, in Allah's chaplet strong, is but a word on Andalusia's tongue. Al-Zarah. Not with the orient glamour of her pleasures, nor with fond rhapsodies of prayer or song, could she, her sovereign reign, a day prolong. Not in the things of beauty that man measures by the variable humor of his leisure's, or by the credibilities that change from faith to fantasy to rumour strange. Was she the mistress of immortal treasures? But when the holy shrine Europa sought herself of sin and witchcraft to a soil, the sovereigns of Al-Zarah, Maxims wrought, and Averroes burned his midnight oil. Arabia, the bearer of the light, still sparkles in the diadem of night. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. In the Palm Groves of Memphis, by Amin Rihani. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok. The calm scene comes robed in the Libyan sands, veiled in the haze of June. Armed with Sahara's serpent-wreathed brands, shod with the sun and moon. Swift-winging in a cycloramic flame of Typhon-born, unseeing, and untame, she comes her reign of terror to proclaim, while crowning day and night with all the blazonry of Tropic noon. She claps her iridescent wings, and lo, the rolling heat, tremulous, reverberant, aglow, sibilant, fleet, sweeps over the land with unabating hire, devouring Spring's heritage entire, setting the very pyramids afire, engulfing even the turtle-shelter and the turtle-doves retreat. Alas, where are the roses which the prime of summer share, with the sesame, the myrtle, and the thyme in meadow's fair? Where is the sacred lotus and the bloom of common and mimosa, whose perfume once filled the shrine of Isis and her tomb? Where is the pomegranate flower that shone in Cleopatra's hair? Where is the riant beauty of the land of mystic runes that decorates its shimmering robes of sand with emerald moons? Where are the emerald-shelters desert-bound that with the prayer of caribans resound? Where is the desert trail, the watering ground, that murmurs low of lost oases amidst the fast- dissolving dunes? Where is the caravan that yester-night to the merry sound of bells set out of the city of delight to Nubia-bound? Where is the Nubian caravan that late passed heavy laden through Dendera's gate, speeding to reach the city for the fate when gold and silver freely flow, when Allah's bounties abound? Where is the crested lark, the golden thrush of the sacred grove, which made the sensitive acacia blush and bloom with love? Where has the bearded bustered fallen? Where is Ibis, once the pet of Hermes' fair, nursing his purple wings and his despair? Where is the red flamingo hiding? Where's the house of the turtle dove? Across the welkin, like a shadow cast upon a cloud, but one undaunted dips his black wings in the blast and rears anon his form against the rushing winds, alone the vulture hovers around the flame-draped throne of death and over the palms that rock and moan, peering through the desolation, staring at the laughing sun? And come, seen, in her chariot of fire upon which clings the malt of her unsatiable desire, delirious sings and shakes the harvest from her tangled hair, the sesame seeds, the grasses sear, the tear, the golden tassels which the rushes wear, the purple feathers of the Ibis and the swallows' shriveled wings. She shakes her booty from her sapphire tresses in gleeful guile, as she in passing savagely caresses the crouching nile, while everywhere, within her sight or call, along its banks or in its rushes tall, all things are swooning in her leaden thrall. Yay! Prostrate is the salamander, Prostrate is the crocodile. And when at intervals her madness takes a sudden turn, Alal ensues, and over Egypt breaks the sacred urn of silence, while to quench her ancient thirst, which licked up every running stream and cursed every pool in cave or hollow nursed, she plunges deep into the nile and wonders why his waters burn, and wonders, too, when in the winnowed sands, out of the gloom of Labyrinthine avenues and lands of mystic bloom, arise the sense of blossoms that have known ten thousand comscenes, and where often blown to dust their meanies sat upon his throne, the blossoms of the teeming depths that float above the crest of doom. Yay! And in the scattered dust of Ta, the flawless gleam that once shone in the fain of Amun Ra, would fain redeem from darknesses of immemorial time, which swallowed Thebes and Memphis in their prime, the symbol of a heritage sublime, and light again the sacred temple of the world's eternal dream. For though the earth itself should perish in a flaming pyre, and the wasting sun should like a spider, spin his cobwebs of fire, yet in the serdabs under comscenes feet, around the blue of Osiris's judgment seat, is this which glyphs vermilion repeat, the sun of thought, of faith, of God, shall never expire, shall never expire. Albeit in a mocking gust, she veers into the gloom that knows nor time nor sun, nor ever hears the voice of doom, and rifling the bejeweled gods, she drops the veil of splendor from her how-does-tops, and rocks in state, from karnak to keops, to tramp the dust of Pharaoh's pride, to smite the phantom of his tomb. And mocking comscene, when her mood is spent, lulls the morn in luscious breezes, swooning with the scent of love reborn, caressing winds, the tree senescent grows in you, as young and fruitful, and the rose upon the bister lips of Ramesses blows, whispering of things immortal to the wandering seed and the reed forlorn. She passes in phantasmagoric waves, overshifting dunes, through shattered orbs, beyond the barren caves of murdering moons, while the antique youth the sun, as young today as when the cricket first assayed her lay, across the flood of Nilus, makes his way, and with him waves for Egypt, wondrous summer garlands and galoons. And lo, the comscene of the world, in flames of crimson hue, and clouds of vitriolic dust, proclaims the era new, but through the storm a spirit wings his flight across the phosphorescent gulfs of night, and this upon the rising sun doth write, God liveth yea, God liveth still, and man shall nothing rue. O Lord of Bounties, melt thy heaven's breath, which spreads its gold around the head of death, which, while it smiles, devours all living things, giving to desolation wondrous wings, lest in the waste Arabia's star should wane, a little rain, Allah, a little rain. Thou bountiful, thy sun is weaving fast the shroud of earth, now in the sandstorm cast. Death cannot weep, the well of faith is run, its rivers and its desert sands are won, O thou bestower, once more sustain thy sun-crowned daughter with a little rain. Quiet this rising phantom-haunted sea of sands, the faithful from its fury free, enchain the monsters of the dire Samoom. Let not the desert be thy children's tomb, thou merciful assist us to attain our goal, a little rain, a little rain. Arabia's thousand wounds to thee appeal, and with their lips its gaping wounds we seal, prostrate upon the sands we lift our hearts, pierced in thy presence by thy flaming darts, thy children, Allah, in the throes of pain, pray for a little rain, a little rain. Here are flowers, O my beloved, here are flowers. Let us lay our hearts today among the flowers. Let us not be led astray by the mirage far away. Here is Virger, and in Virger, love in bowers. Here are springs, O my beloved, here are springs. Let us rest and build a nest near the springs. Let us cease our weary quest for the mountains of the blessed. Here is water, and in water blessing sings. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. Allah is merciful, Allah is kind, his heart in the tears of the earth is enshrined. He chains the desire of whirlwind and fire, the drought, the semen and their forces entire in the fast-spreading shades of his pity's suspire, it rains, it rains. Allah is gracious, Allah is sweet, the desert is flowering under his feet, in the fires he fanned and the mountains they spanned, and the caverns that groan under burdens of sand are dazed with the bounties that flow from his hand, it rains, it rains. Allah's all-seeing, Allah is wise, the palm from the stone to praise him shall rise, the deer in the dale, the plant in the shale, the bird in the nest and the gall in the gale, or joyously chanting hail, Allah hail, it rains, it rains. Allah is mighty, Allah is great, his hands all things resuscitate, he burns the shroud, he shakes the cloud, and the dead of the earth with new life are endowed, the bones of the earth are joyous and proud, it rains, it rains. House of Night by Amin Rahani Her sable robes the gloaming trails from golden strand to purple height, and softly over the wheels and dales into the vacant house of night. But lo, where her first footsteps mark the sun-set's last extinguished fire above the hills, a saffron spark, a gleam of unconjectured fire, between the foliage zone and sky, where centuries of the forest stand, it peeps and flits a firefly, it soars and glows a firebrand, a sacred flame from hemlock shades rising like a mystic sign above the silence of the glades into the solitude's divine, a sign perchance from those who pass to those who follow in the gloom, dancing round a molten mass above the grudging gulfs of doom. A newborn world, though years untold, have fed the forge that gave it breath, where life still casts a beaten gold crescents for the shrine of death. A dying world, though alike a gem of sapphire hues and knacker bright, dropped from the zone or diadem of the immortal queen of night. A world, from depths to heights as dark it leaps anon into the dance, and whirls away, tis but a spark from the anvil of the god of chance. But faith and fancy often mar the mystery of things divine, for that which is a rolling star was fluttering neath a lonely pine. And lo, another orb doth roll above the groves where once it trod, and still another seeks its gold in the infinities of God. From where the eagle marks his flight across the void that earthbound seems, they twinkle forth a circle of light around the glooming's couch of dreams. And thus they first themselves disguise as glowworms in the gathering gloom, and suddenly refulgent rise, or the abysmal tracks of doom. For eons thus, from hill to sea, a thwart the grudging gulfs they glow, and weaning tell of the worlds that be, and the ghosts of worlds of long ago. For eons thus, their torches high, the gods unseen, as when the light of day conceals the starry sky, illuminate the house of night. After reading King Lear, by Amin Rihani, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk, it's strange that in the cycle of his woes, which shakes his cloud embosomed peak of years, and shatters the very fountain of his tears, he seeks the friendly path of winds and snows. In villainy, forgiven, more villainous grows, and treason in his robes herself attires, and love beneath adultery's sheet expires. It's strange that mating with the storm he goes. Father and King, in sooth they know thee well, the whirlwind, and the forest, and the night. And we, who win the obscure shelters dwell, know better of thy sorrow than thy might. Father and King, thy heritage is vast, wherever children be, its seeds are cast. I wonder among the hills of alien lands, where nature, her prerogative, resigns to man, where comfort in her shack reclines, and all the arts and sciences commands. But in my soul, the eastern billows roll, I hear the voices of my native strands. My lingering eyes, a lonely hemlock, fills with grace and splendor, rising manifold. With her boughs, the maple spread their gold, and at her feet the silver of the rills. But in my heart, a peasant void of art, echoes the voices of my native hills. On every height a studied art confines all human joy in social polkretude. The boxwood frowns, where beckoning birches stood, and where the thrushes carrelled, fashion dines. But through the spreading cheer, the shepherds read I hear, beneath my Lebanon terribence and pines. And though no voices here are heard of toil, nor accents least of sorrow, nor the din of multitudes, nor even at the inn, the city is permitted ought to spoil. Yet in my breast a shack at best laments the mother of my native soil. Even where the sumptuous solitudes deny a shelter to a bird or butterfly, as in the humblest dwelling of the dale, a gracious welcome shone the passer by. But ever more clear, all where I hear, the calling of my native hot and sky. Land of my birth, a handful of thy sod, resuscitates the flower of my faith. For whatsoever the seer of science sayeth, Thou art the cradle and the tomb of God, and for ever I behold a vision hold of beauty weeping where he once hath trod. Little poem, this recording is in the public domain. Lebanonus, oh my love, is calling, yea, and waiting in his ancient tower. In his ancient cedar-shaded castle, night and day, Lebanonus sits amusing of the memories that bloom unnoticed every season at the feet of sorrow. Musing of the radiant days of Tammuz, that went dancing with the bride of summer, down the deep and pine encircled wadi, musing of the time the prophets kindled sacred fire in man's emperpled temples, blazing all the highways of the world. Musing of the days embattled monarchs, laid their shields and lances at his feet, bowed before his throne invincible, oh my love, the sad and lonely cedar ever rocking in her arid splendor, ever in penurious shades embosomed, reaches out for water in the meadows and for sunlight in deserted vineyards, rears her hope above the snow eternal, crowning her time hallowed desolation, oh my love, the crumbling temples dreaming of the star that wonders from its orbit, of the rose that blooms and dies forsaken, of the leaves that fall from sheltering branches only to become the sport of chance winds, or the bed of some unsightly creeper, dreaming of the Lebanon lily drooping in the dells beneath forbidding ridges, dreaming of the corums of the elder that forgot the touch of loving hands, for the zephyr of the south which passes o'er their bloom of tender welcome, only fans into a flame the smoldering embers of the anguish of departed lovers, oh my love, the furses are in full bloom waiting on the terrace of Lebanonus, for the ardent and enamored seeker, waiting, and the secret of their silence locked, remains within their shells of amber, till thou comest, till they hear thee whisper, I am thine, and thou art mine, for ever, oh my love, how long wilt hither tarry, making toys of times discarded hours, fair Lebanonus, oh my love, is calling, yey, and waiting in his house of flowers, and around it wings of song unnumbered, amber tinted, berylene, vermillion, pour their riches in the land of mourning, strew their silver in the olive grove, weave their magic through the almond blossoms, shake the incense from the terribents, spread in vain their gladness o'er the pines, yey, a sea of siren witchery, like the sundown inundates the heaven, rolling o'er a sea of boughs emblosomed, multi-hued, a glow with burning rapture, waves of song o'er on the scented breezes, rolling o'er the virgin snow of Sannin, o'er the trackless verger of the lowland, o'er the mottled mountains joined for ever in a wild embrace of stony silence, rolling over waddies, funly nursing sicklemen's of unremembered seasons, oleanders of unfathored beauty, irises of mothered tenderness, yey, my love, the robin in the olives thrills the very shadow of the branch, in the pomegranate, thrush and skylark, fairlets crimson cups with flaming rapture, in the fig tree and the laden vineyard, bull bulls chant the joy of harvest time, yey, my love, the birds of dawn are calling, whispering, chattering, warbling everywhere, dancing, flitting, waiting in the groves, lingering in the chinks of terraces, making early visits to their young. Nay, they're busy making preparation for thy coming, longing to behold thee, singing meanwhile to the morning star, which borrows from thine eyes its radiance, from thy tresses all its golden splendor. O my love, how long wilt hither tarry, wilt dally with the web of time, how long? Lone Lebanus, oh my love, is calling, yey, and waiting in his house of song, and over it our star is reappearing, the star of our own destiny is rising o'er the mountains of embrace eternal, o'er the cedars of the sacred faith, o'er the ruins of the ancient temple, flooding them with light of tender pallor, like the light that lingers in the eyes of parted lovers, shaking from the bosom of night their shadows, dew-drenched, iris-centred, garlanding the messengers of morning for the coming of the well-loved stranger, yey, the star of love, the light supernal, before which bowed the world in adoration, is reappearing in the orient heaven for thy sake, for thee, oh my beloved, yey, without thee, neither song nor flower nor star nor temple of antique, Lebanus has ought compelling of the soul's devotion, but with thee the caves, the naked ridges, the very rocks betoken the divine, oh my love, how long wilt hither tarry weaving gossamer of day and night, sad Lebanus, oh my love, is calling, yey, and waiting in his house of light. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain, The Pagan by Amin Rihani, read for LibriVox.org I walked into her temple as of yore, my Tyrion Sires allured by cryptic signs, but sudden as I entered closed the door upon the hope that mortal love resigns before her ancient mortal-boured shrines. I sorrowed not, though every lamp I lit flamed up in speech articulate and said, Beware, oh foolish worshipper, Tizrit, who craves a gift shall give his soul instead, who lights a lamp is cursed of the dead. I did not heed, I passed from shrine to shrine, filling the lamps with oil, the fane with light, but when I approached, oh one eternal thine, I heard the terror of her tongue, and night was creeping on her brow of Malachite. I did not stop, although the vote of oil I poured into thine urn to water turned, but when the dawn her enchantments came to foil, the secret of thy clemency I learned, again the oil upon thine altar burned. Then suddenly the temple shook and swayed, and all the shrines, except thine, disappeared. Even so her heart, by knowledge undismayed, unloves one altar with thy hand upreared, to loves one god, is ever more endeared. THE LOST DISCIPLE By Amin Rihani Red4Libervox.org By Stefan Oh Master, I cannot adventure with thee. At the door of the dawn, in my lone wandering, I have broken my staff. For the true dawn is she, who comes every day with her jar to the spring. I, Master, I tarried last night at the gate of her garden, which kisses the lake Galilee. She was gathering flowers and fruits for the fate, and with tulips and poppies she beckoned to me. In her lamp there was oil. In my hand there was fire. In her house cried a voice, O make haste with the flame. On my lips were the names of the daughters of Tyre. On her breast were the lilies that whispered thy name. I have dared, O my Master, to envy thy feet, and to yearn for the love of a model in fair. I have dreamed that mine too, in the heart of the street, were laved with her own hands and dried with her hair. O Master, my lips her devotion have stained. For her soul's precious ointments were offered too late. I have lost in the fire of my lust what I gained in my longing and love for her love and thy fate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain from the Arabic by Amin Rihani. Read for Libervox.org by Stefan. Why art thou so hushed and sad, so thin and wan? Who robbed thee of thy flesh and song? Was it Ramadan? Nay, Ramadan is not to blame, for I have ceased to fast and pray. But to my vacant dwelling came an unknown guest. He came to stay. And in my heart he eats and drinks. He drinks my blood of wines the best, and eats my burning flesh. Ah, yes, my love for Zahra is that guest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. She went out singing by Amin Rihani. Read for Libervox.org by Bruce Gachok. She went out singing, and the poppies still crowd round her door, awaiting her return. She went out dancing, and the doleful rail lingers beneath her walls, her news to learn. Their love is but a seed of what she has sown. Their grief is but a shadow of my own. O tomb, O tomb, did Zahra's beauty fade, or dust thou still preserve it in thy gloom? O tomb, thou art nor firmament nor glade, yet in thee shines the moon, and lilies bloom. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Haanem by Amin Rihani. Read for Libervox.org by Bruce Gachok. Haanem, we must have met before, perhaps a thousand years ago. I still remember when I tore your virgin veil of lunar snow. By Allah I remember too when sowsing in my mortal bane. You bit my lip and said, Adieu, when shall we, Syrian, meet again? Haanem, thine eyes are brighter far than when in mine they shone one day. I wager every moon and star the tax of luster to them pay, and those who dared with them to jest, where are they now? Those lovers slain who whisper dying on your breast? O Haanem, shall we meet again? The victims of your eyes are here. In pyramids they keep their clay, and even your sister Flames are near. They fain would kiss my soul away. Full many a time from them you bore this mortal love, this mortal gain. Remember Nubia's Sable Shore. When shall we, Haanem, meet again? Lenvoi. Why quickly through the Cairo Street? Will you return? Shall I remain? Fate might not ever the chance repeat. When shall we, Haanem, meet again? And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. All Freedom. By Amin Rihani. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok. O Freedom, in thy cause I fought. For twenty years I fought in vain, and in my mountain shelter not but worthless trophies now remain. Yet in my heart I hear a cry, which never there makes a vain appeal. I would once more beneath thy sky brandish my sharp and shining steel. How much one stakes upon thy dream. How much for but thy name we pay. How cheap the passing ages seem when years are given for thy day. How many still would fight and die in thine old cause and for thy wheel. I would once more beneath thy sky brandish my sharp and shining steel. The purest love I give away. The bliss of it I set at naught. Again I'm on my wayward way, seeking what I have often sought. My wounded hopes, my bleeding ties. No peace in glorious air shall heal. I would once more beneath thy skies brandish my sharp and shining steel. Lenvoy. O Freedom, though thy price be high, though one for thee his life must seal. I would once more beneath thy sky brandish my sharp and shining steel. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Road of Make Believe. By Amin Rihani. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok. She sits upon a rock along the stream that heard the whisper of her first desire. Washing the faded garment of her dream, which she had often carried to the dire. The dream of her self-centered lyric fire. And in the flowing scarlet wounds of twilight, expiring on Aurora's drooping wings beneath the secret scimitar of night. She dies again her garment while she sings of newborn love. Though to self-love she clings. He seeks the path of glory in the noon of self-intoxication, dreaming still of power, wondering why the sun and moon are not yoked to the chariot of his will. His soul, a clinging vine, his mind and hill. He beats against the peaks of earthbound dreams, subsisting on the thistles of his heart. Whatever seeking in the fitful gleams of his own fire, self-admirations mart to mend his horn or wet his venom dart. They walk together in the golden vast of vision haunted, soul alluring sands, beholding the illusions of the past among the ruins of deserted lands. Together, although neither understands the groping purpose of the other, and yet while in their hearts the gods of conflict nod, they glows and smile, dissembling their regret. Love on the road of make-believe, they prod. He going to the dogs, and she to God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Renunciation. By Amin Rihani. Red4LibraryVox.org by Bruce Gachok. At eventide the pilgrim came and knocked at the beloved's door. Who's there? A voice within. Thy name? Tis I, he said. Then knock no more, as well ask thou a lodging of the sea. There is no room herein for thee and me. The pilgrim went again his way, and dwelt with love upon the shore of self-ablivion, and one day he knocked again at the beloved's door. Who's there? It is thyself, he now replied, and suddenly the door was opened wide. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Sufi song. By Amin Rihani. Red4LibraryVox.org by Bruce Gachok. My heart's the field I sow for thee. For thee to water and to reap. My heart's the house I hope for thee. For thee to air and dust and sweep. My heart's the rug I spread for thee. For thee to dance or pray or sleep. My heart's the pearls I thread for thee. For thee to wear or break or keep. My heart's a sack of magic things. Magic carpets, caps and rings. To bring thee treasures from afar and from the deep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Two Brothers. By Amin Rihani. Red4LibraryVox.org by Bruce Gachok. In the grotto the forest designed, where the firefly first dreamed of the sun, and the cricket first chirped to the blind zoophyte. In the cave of the mind we were born, and our cradle is won. We are brothers. Together we dwelt unknown and unheard and unseen for eons. Together we felt the urge of the forces that melt the rocks into willowy green. For eons together we drifted in the molten abysses of flame. While the cycles are heritage sifted, from the vapor and ooze and uplifted, the image that now bears our name. I am God, thou art man, but the light that mothers the planets. The sea of stardust that roofs every height of the universe. The gulfs of the night, they are surging in thee as in me. But out of the chaos to lead us, the giants that borrow our eyes, and lend us their shoulders must heed us. They yield us their purpose, they deed us forever, the worlds and the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. God of the Distances Hear Us by Amin Rihane Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok God of the Distances Hear Us Hear Us and Guide Us Today Thy footsteps, though never so near us, are lost in the dust of the fray. Thy High Priests, who often have spoken the word that was heeded, are mute. Their torch is extinguished, their token is distrust, and discord, and dispute. God of the Distances, never was man, though still fettered, so free to challenge his star, and to sever himself from the past and from thee. But we, though our spirit is broken, we heed thee again and anon. We trust thee, O God, though thy token be the desert, thy promise the sun. Forever the distances call us, the distances veiled of the dream, and we come whatsoever befall us, our pledges and thine to redeem. We come, and though often we altered our course at the gates of dismay, we never looked backward or faltered, never regretted our way. God of the Distances Hear Us Hear Us and Guide Us Today From the cave of the first dream we wandered, through the forests of fate and of chance, and on many an illusion we squandered, the treasures of faith and romance. We fared with the fairies of Noontide. We roved with the gin of the night, our high priests we left on the wayside, our prophets we lost on the height of rebellion recurrent. We passed many a temple and shrine, where the sherds of old creeds were recast, and traded as tokens divine. We passed them forever consoled, and cajoled by the voice, tis the way of your goal, your forebodings allay. But thousands of cycles we told, millions of leagues we unrolled, heedless of time and his sway. God of the visions of old, hear us and guide us today. We sailed all the seas of the mind. We rounded the capes of the soul. We crossed all the channels that roll over the dead of our kind, and on many a beckoning strand, furrowed with silvery streams. We lingered but low in the land, where the desolate gardens of dreams. Onward the sails of desire, born of the distances fire, tattered but ever unfurled, to worlds undiscovered aspire, to the life-giving worlds of our world. Onward, though no signs appear where once rose the fares of the seer and the prophet, on, on to the goal, though veiled in the billows that roll over Orion. The fear of the distances never was leech of our hearts, but the mazes besiege the bridges of faith on our way. God of our vision, us dear, hear us and guide us today. Hear us, the captains of sorrow, the tellers of the soil of defeat, the lights of the oft-promised morrow, whose false dawns thy promise repeat. Our name and our purpose are written in blood on the tablets of time. Our spirit, though frequently smitten, to the dust has arisen sublime, and triumphant again and again. Our torch, though extinguished, was never relinquished, our sword and our pen are brandished for ever and ever. Yay, the ideals undying desire and the wreaths of defeat it has won. Their story in letters of fire is limned on the brow of the sun, and not till a new world's begotten of the womb of our own will the word of the soul of the earth be forgotten or the cry of the earth be unheard. Tis our word, tis our cry, tis our yearning, which shall mark even the ending of time. For no cycle of darkness returning shall reach to the path we must climb, or a face from our sight the supernal beauty of truth born of dream. God of the vision, eternal, we are thine, though in darkness we seem, but hear us, oh hear us, today, and help us again to our way. Which you may never behold until my sons and satellites are cold. And in the seeking you shall find the hidden jewels of the soul and mind, and every jewel shall reveal things divine, even in a Sufi's logic wheel. Yay, even in the lowing kind. The eye-wash, oh lone Badrudin, I bring, is of the first dews of the first born spring. Apply it, and behold, your dog-bitten sandals are transformed into gold. Your staff, sand-heaton, and far-wandering is bursting into foliage, blossoming, bearing fruits of wondrous lush and glow. And underneath the heavy laden tree, a maid whose face dispels all human woe, is cooking sesame for you and me. Cast off the garments of the world, and wear the sacred shades, whose color of contentment never fades, and sit beside me with the golden fawn, whose name is eternal dawn. Oh, thou beloved, every word of thine is like a draft of purple wine, every syllable is like the singing of the bulbol. More potent are they than the magic lore, which to the blind the sight restore, as now to one who though a pilgrim old is but an infant in the cradle of love. Yay, oh, thou incomparably sweet, thy words are to my eyes a healing coal. Musk to my nostrils, bomb to my soul, strengthening ointments to my feet, and what, in the stores and treasures of the world, is equal unto this wealth and beauty, fame and power. They are but mirages in the boundless waste that separates me from thee for an hour. Once I tarried at a well in an oasis fair, but in the cup I lifted to my lips I saw the image of thy wrath and my despair. I dashed against a rock the common play, and hastened away. Now, oh, thou beloved, I come to thee with thy beauty drunk and dumb, burdened with thy wealth and lame, ushered by thy liveried fame. In thy glory garbed, I come, but I tremble at thy threshold lest the thorns in my feet the story of my sacrifice repeat. I tremble at thy threshold lest the flowers of my heart betray the painted lips of conscious art. I tremble at thy threshold lest the eyes that long have sought to behold but once thy face deserve not even thy shadow to embrace. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain, The Sufi, by Amin Rihani, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. Lord, in the purple darkness is my soul, behind the curtain, Allah, of my sight, where recreative waves of wonder roll, from sad seas of color over dead seas of light. I close my eyes and lo, the laden night stops at the ivory gate to pay thy toll to my soul. And with it wealth in destitution's van, and power in the chariot of dole, and fame upon the skeleton she stole from death, ambition too amidst her clan, spurring her jaded nag, the caravan of life is at the gate to pay thy toll to my soul. They pass. I open my eyes, and as I try to con the cruel pages of the scroll, which censure left in fragments at their goal, then suddenly, illumining the sky, a form of grace and beauty I describe, tis love, O Allah, come to pay thy toll to my soul. But once, while lingering in the doleful shades among the fallen, wine-stained colonnades of what was once thy temple, were still troll, with languid step, the spirit of pagan maids, I saw thee, Allah, coming through the glades with food of love, and from thy script I stole a jasmine for my hungry soul. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Fugitive by Amin Rihani, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachak. I saw thee following me. I heard thee calling me. I even felt thy narrows in my tears. I know thou art shadowing me, and wilt yet, forstalling me, whip out the vanities of all my years. I ran, and still I run away from thee through maze and mirage of mortality, over the hot sands and the frozen lakes, across the sable wilderness that breaks infragrant moors. I ran to hills of dreams, up to the secret borderland that gleams eternally, casting its shafts of light from every incommunicable height, upon the spinning feet of humankind. Oh, how I leap from peak to peak to find the path to the azure dance hall of the world, whose dome is gemmed, whose portals are imperiled with hearts that melt and crystallize and shine, with frozen music, frozen beads of wine, and whose laughter echoes through the spinning spheres, where we were taught to dance in former years. Yay, I, who lit thine altar as a boy, and nursed in incense fumes my vision of joy, and, like a roebuck, leaped across the rills, and danced like sparks of sunlight or the hills, to be at early morn and even tide, the first of acolytes that served with pride, thy venerable priests. Alas, one day, casting my shame and piety aside, I snuffed the candles out, and walked away into the dazzling night of dance and song, into the temple of the merry throng. And ever since, a fugitive from thee, shod with thy lightning, chuckling oft with glee, unburdened and unfettered and undaunted, with naught, not in my shamelessness to hide, and only by beguiling beauty haunted, I trod the path of demiurgic pride. Yay, I was proud, when in the dance desire I could command the fruit of every tree, the bloom of every garden, and the fire of every passion, every ecstasy upon my way. O pride of brawn and dare, I'd shake the luster from the stars and steal the sap from the vines of dune, and I would share my booty with the comrade that would seal his thieving faith with peons to the deed that knows nor law, nor moral code, nor creed. I ran, and still I run away from thee, past pyramids and labyrinths of reason, through gleaming forests where the upus tree feeds both the saint and sinner for a season, and I danced in its lethal shades. I climbed up to the highest fruit-concealing bow that bends beneath a mucking wing. I rhymed my joy and pride, and o'er the very brow of death I leaped into the howling void where the acrobats of mind with balance pole of logic in their hands are ever employed in scanning the dark canyons of the soul, and I was proud when on the tight rope I assayed my feet and fixed my giddy brain upon the universe where at the sky was but a mute infinity of vain belief, and every mystery divine a sea-washed iridescent hollow shell upon the sands of faith. Yay, every sign upon the road led to an empty well, and I was proud, o' pride of intellect that the nothingness of things I could detect. I ran, and still I run away from thee, mistaking thy compassion for thine ire, a rebel eye fantastically free, a green-eyed flame of prepetating fire whipped by the winds of circumstance, and yet by thee pursued, and by thy love beset, and why? I oft pretend to know not why this fond solicitude, for what am I but a bubble of vanity, a human thing puffed with the vision of a loneliness in which a pimpled ego tries to sing of self alas, and spread its ebb and wing. But I remember still thy first caress, which in my infant vision I could feel even as the flowers which thy love reveal, even as the ocean in the moon's embrace, even as the sunrise that reflects thy face, and this remembering I hailed the soul, flaunting the sacred symbol of the goal that shrines thine image, yea, and I was proud that rising over self, thyself, to find, with thine own godliness I was endowed, and yet I am but partially resigned. O spiritual pride, which would disguise the hollow heart of holier than thou, in accents borrowed from the meek and wise, I too have prated with a placid brow, though I, still casting shadows in the mire, was but a scarecrow in the vineyard of desire. I saw thee following me, I heard thee calling me, I even felt thine arrows in my tears, I know thou art shadowing me, and wilt yet forstalling me, whip out the vanities of all my years. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Chant of Mystics by Amin Rahani, read for LibriVox.org by Josh Kibbe. 1 From the mist of Arcana we rise, through the universe of secrets we come, and we enter the tavern as lovers, whose features are pale as the false dawn, whose statues are lean as the new moon, like unto a jar is the body, and the soul in the jar is the silvery voice of the fountain, is the rose-scented breath of the mountain. For your sake we have come, the shape of a jar from the sea, for your sake we have come as disgrace, but glory incarnate are we, for the sake of the world we dance, or the flame on the point of the lance, oh, think us not mortal, for we are the light on the foam of the sea. Of a truth we are akin to the sun, the infinite source of all splendors, we are one with the world's riddles and wonders, but not of the world nor the sun is the breath that lingers awhile in the regions of death, the dust on our sandals betrays us, we know, we have traveled afar our devotion to show, to him who is waiting for us at the gate, of the garden of union our longing to sate. We shall interpret the truth, we shall the secret unveil, for naked we come like the dew, like the zephyr we come in the gale, naked through thornbush and grass we speak and we pass, our garments were burned in the fire of the mind, in the world where the death still disputes with the blind, we are the truth, and into the world from the universe of secrets we are hurled, we are the truth, and into the skies from the mists of arcana we rise. 2. In the light of the day and the stars of the night we behold, the face of the master, the feet of the pilgrim of old, in the sigh of the wind and the voice of the thunder we hear, the plain to the bard and the rhapsodic chant of the seer, without them alas we are dumb, though not deaf to the flute and the drum, but the vision is true, alahu alahu, they are garbed in blue, alahu alahu, they are drenched with dew, alahu alahu. 3. Hail Senai, the moon of the soul, the guide on the road to the gole, hail Atar, the vizier of birds, who sing in his musk-scented words, hail Rabi, the tongue of the truth, the eye of the prophet ensuth, hail Rabi, the heart of the sphere, beloved of the bard and the seer, the rosebud that rises to greet the splendor beneath all his feet, hail Ghazali, the weaver of light, the maker of wings for the flight, hail Halar, the diver divine, whose pearls decorate every shrine, whose blood was the pledge that his words, I am truth, shall for Arabia sign, to Jalauddin Rumi, all hail, the master who flung every veil to the wind who ne'er sober was seen, though ne'er to the tavern had been, but ever, and often alone, was dancing before all his throne, hail Tabrizzi, who nourished the bard with jasmine and myrtle and nard, who loafed and invited his soul and would not write a word in his scroll, hail Farid, the love-stricken one, the heart of the rhapsodic sun, the soul of the vineyard, the press that knew every vineyard's caress, the host of the tavern divine, the sake, the cup and the wine, the vision is true, alahu alahu, they are garbed in blue, alahu alahu, they are drenched with dew, alahu alahu, and casting the years from their folds in the shame from their bosoms they leap in the circle of flame, they leap with the flash of their limbs to the dance in the tender caress of the beautiful's glance, for only in rapture the face of beloved is seen, through the mask of the spheres and the veils of existence to reign, and only the slaves of devotion and love have the feet that dare to approach the enravishing glow of the screen, yea, hither we come as the flame of his rapturous fire, and to the music of Rebekah and Flute in the dance we expire. 3. Yea, man is as near the beloved as far from the world he may be, he is full of the beauty of Allah and he is void of the Thou and the me, life in the world we abandon, that the life of the world we may see, oh, come to the assembly of lovers in the shade of the tuba tree, oh, come to the banquet of union in taste of the ecstasy, oh, come to the tavern where nectar and wine are flow as the sea, for only the drunken are sober and only the fettered are free, like the waves of the ocean we rise and we melt into foam, that the moon's caravan might carry us back to our home, like the motes in our sunbeam we dance in the dawn's disarray, that the sun might preserve us awhile from dust and decay, but the atoms of bean, the motes in the sun of his love, are a flame with desire to be where no night is nor day, like a child in the cradle whose mother must rock it to sleep, we rock to and fro that the child of our heart might be still, like the lonely palm when the whirlwinds over its sweep, we sigh and we chaff in our chains and we bow to his will, like the bird in the cage who pecks at his sugar and sings, so we in the cage of the world to quiet our wings, but the vulgar will say that the dance of the palms to the wind, and the bird to the sugar is singing, alas for the blind, we come for their sake in the shape of a jar from the sea, we are filled with the water that heals, and though sealed we are free, nor crescent nor cross we adore, nor buddhan nor Christ we implore, nor muslim nor jew we abhor, we are free, we are not of Iran nor of Ind, we are not of Arabia or Sind, we are free, we are not to the east or the west, no boundaries exist in our breast, we are free, we are not made of dust or of dew, we are not to the earth or the blue, we are free, we are not wrought of fire or of foam, nor the sun nor the sea is our home, nor the angel our kin nor the gnome, we are free, yay beyond all the moons and the suns and the stars, and a place where no shadow of horizon is nor of darkness a trace, where the garden of God is a bloom on love's radiant strand, there is our temple, our home, and our own native land, yay body and soul is the world and the sun do we give, and in the first soul the soul of beloved eternally live. Four. Awake, O ye pilgrims awake, O lovers arise and prepare, the drum of departure we hear, the driver has come for the fair, the camel's already, their bells are decking with silver the air, Awake, O ye pilgrims awake, O lovers arise and prepare, the nightingale sings on the branch to wake up the blossoms, the creek, whispers a word to the fern who follows, his favorite is seek, the tulip is begging to go with the zephyr who kisses her cheek, the face of the mist is aglow for dawn mounts the minaret to speak, open the road is and safe, no gates and no sentries are there, Awake, O ye pilgrims awake, O lovers arise and prepare, each moment a spirit is sent with the message of mystery sealed, each moment a spirit goes forth that the mystery might be revealed, and whenever the dawn opes his eyes, a blind one on the wafer is healed, whenever a lover appears the night drops her star-studded shield, whenever a lover is slain, blooms a flower in the world's barley field, and always the pangs of departure are wrought into torches that flare, Awake, O ye pilgrims awake, O lovers arise and prepare. ere the sake was born, ere the vineyard existed, the cup brightened brimful enchanted our eye, ere the tavern was built, we reveled and tristed with the loved one and drank to his beauty divine, we drink till we wander away from self and desire, we drink till in drunkenness we on his bosom expire, we have known long ago all the raptures of madness, all the raptures of burning from childhood we know, and our soul is the soul of the mother of gladness, and our heart is the heart of the father of woe, transported in smitten we wander with narrow complaint, our story entrances the sinner and raptures the saint, transported in smitten and drunk we are thought to be mad, self-abandoned unity seeking where the puzzle the fools, for the mad men's madness has varied in art and the sad, piety-monger tickles his heart when he drools. O mind not the strings of our robe, they were loosed in the revel, they snapped when we drunk with the saints and danced with the devil. There is nothing that we would conceal in the seeking, our love is the sun and our passion its flame, to dance all our tavern we come not as sneaking, for the right and the wrong of the world are the same, and if you are a seeker, the blood of hypocrisy shed, nor be trampled by shame take a pondured and cut off her head. For your sake we have come in the shape of a jar from the sea, for your sake we have come as disgrace, but glory incarnate are we. O think us not mortal, for we are the light in the foam of the sea. Still hire our rank that we come with the flute in the drum, and the veils of the world do we come with the flute in the drum, as vigilant warders we come with the flute in the drum, to call you to the tavern we come with the flute in the drum. 5. Perchance in our sleep, we become unaware of the circumstance strange of our birth. Perchance ahead divides the heaven and the earth. But whether two worlds or a hundred, the loved one is all. Only one do we seek, only one do we know, only one do we hear, do we see, do we call. We come as the heroes and slaves of the mighty, the dear. We come as the mind and the soul of the violent sphere. What place have your meat and your bread, where we were first born and first fed? Through our eye and our ear, and now without eyes can we see. Without tongues can we speak, without ears can we hear. And when the clouds and the storms of the mind darken and shed out the skies, we kindle the torch of the heart, which we give to the mighty and wise. For the heart is the bird of a world made holy by song. It is the love-lorn and love-guided bull bull the owls among. And doing its wings all exultant its ways over mountains and more, it dreads nor the depths nor the heights nor the transcending lore. The heart is a treasure of gold and the desperate of things. It is the rebeck of love and of love for ever it sings. It is the pearl in the sea and the fair on the shore of the mind. It is the ear of the deaf and the all-seeing eye of the blind. The heart is the maker of dreams, the olympic of power. It is the gate to all beauty, the key to the ivory tower. It is the crown of the Buddha, the Christ. It is the sword of the prophet. It is the flame with the temple of faith, and of reason, the flower. The heart is the last star that leaves in the wake of the night, and the first star that ushers Aurora's pageant of light. It is the first and the last ray of hope, the salvation of man. It is our guide and our standard, the leader of our caravan. Hawken the voice of our leader in the dawn stillness and glow. Allahu, allahu, we're ready, sight-seeing with us who will go. The hour of departure has come, the caravans moving. Wo-ho! We are bound for a country of wonder, sight-seeing with us who will go. Whenever we stop on the way is a feast for the heart and a show. Everywhere too is the tavern sight-seeing with us who will go. He who has led us thus far will lead us still further we know. He opens to us every gate sight-seeing with us who will go. He is the magnet and we are but pieces of steel, wo-ho! Earthward the magnet is moving sight-seeing with us who will go. Sweet scents from the curl of his tresses are afloat on the breezes that blow, from the radiant peaks of the world sight-seeing with us who will go. As we fix our amorous gaze upon him more amorous we grow, he moves in a soul-witching maze sight-seeing with us who will go. Come, but come empty of purse and empty of hand, who travel with us shall not hunger or thirst nor shall need. For the stores of the master are open in every land, and as stewards the earth and the sun his wishes exceed. He is our need, our staff and our creed. Of our hope and despair he's the sun in the seed. Come, but come empty of heart and empty of mind, who travel with us shall not carry a thought or a care, for they who all things abandon everything find, and they who are drawn to the loved one escape every snare. He is our care, our goal and our snare, of our grief and our joy, the bequither and air. Six. Grape juice must ferment in the jar ere it turns into wine, so the heart in the jar of desire to sparkle and shine. Like the face of the mirror that's clear of image and form, so the heart must be free, e'en the shadows to reflect the divine. O brothers, our words are the petals of the rose that eternally blooms, and the thornless rose-bush of the soul which his image assumes. O brothers, our word is the truth, our standard the guide, no Sufis are speaking but he in whom all things abide. Yea, his parrots are we, sugar-chewing and repeating his words evermore, while the habitants root of the world camel-like thistles devour. Sugar-chewing we come for your sake, awake, O ye pilgrims awake, the cypress that once graced the grove is afloat on the river of love. O lovers, the veil of the secret he rins, and like light drops of water he gently descends, he walks on the face of the turbulent sea, driving before him the waves to their lee. Like a shepherdy calls and his flock turn to foam, scurries and scampers impatient for home. A moment alas, when his face is revealed, all the wounds of the world are miraculously healed. A moment alas, when his light disappears, the world is submerged in an ocean of tears. We are the light that is spun, for the firefly and the sun. We are the thread in the pearls of the sea and the tear. Make use of our pearls and our foam and our fire, for your sake we have come as disgrace from the sea. For your sake we have come in the flesh of desire, but to glory and beauty incarnate are we. We are the flowers in his garden, the lights in his hall, the sign on his portal, but he, he is all. He is all. The banquet, the host and the guest. The seeker, the salt and the quest. All three is he. The given, the taker, the giver. Love, the beloved, the lover. All three is he. And we, to rejoin him, like torrents escape through the hills. No fetters, no walls can restrain us. No welfare, no ills. Hope is sighing. Faith is crying. Creeds are dying. Allah, Allah. A clap of thunder, rinse of thunder, man's little wonder. Allah, Allah. Idols tumble in a jumble. Temples crumble. Allah, Allah. Flames are sweeping. Priests are reaping. Kings are weeping. Allah, Allah. Ashes cumber. Flame and dimber. Who remember? Allah, Allah. Night is crawling. Stars are falling. Souls are calling. Allah, Allah. Orbs are winging. Fire bringing. And of him singing. Allah, Allah. Clovenard in his first garden. Wait is pardon. Allah, Allah. Every flower in his bower is love's dower. Allah, Allah. His compassion and his passion are our fashion. Allah, Allah. Whirl, whirl, whirl. To the world is the size of a pearl. Dance, dance, dance. To the world's like the point of a lance. Soar, soar, soar. To the world is no more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of A Chant of Mystics and Other Poems by Amin Rouhani.