Читать книгу The Singing Caravan: A Sufi Tale - Robert Gilbert Vansittart Baron Vansittart - Страница 3

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The sun smote Elburz like a gong.

Slow down the mountain's molten face

Zigzagged the caravan of song.

Time was its slave and went its pace.

It bore a white Transcaspian Queen

Whose barque had touched at Enzelí.

Splendid in jewelled palanquin

She cleft Iran from sea to sea,

Bound for the Persian Gulf of Pearls,

Where demons sail for drifting isles

With bodyguards of dancing girls

And four tamed winds for music, smiles

For passports. Thus the caravan,

Singing from chief to charvadar,

Reached the great gate of screened Tehran.

The burrows of the dim bazaar

Swarmed thick to see the vision pass

On broidered camels like a fleet

Of swaying silence. One there was

Who joined the strangers in the street.

They called him Dreamer-of-the-Age,

The least of Allah's Muslimeen

Who knew the joys of pilgrimage

And wore the sign of sacred green,

A poet, poor and wistful-eyed.

Him all the beauty and the song

Drew by swift magic to her side,

And in a trance he went along

Past friends who questioned of his goal:

"The Brazen Cliffs? The Realms of Musk?

Goes he to Mecca for his soul?..."

The town-light dwindled in the dusk

Behind. Ahead Misr? El Katíf?

The moon far up a brine-green sky

Made Demavend a huge pale reef

Set in an ocean long gone dry.

Bleached mosques like dwarf cave-stalagmites,

Smooth silver-bouldered biyaban

And sevenfold velvet of white nights

Vied with the singing caravan

To make her pathway plain.

Then one

Beside the poet murmured low:

"I plod behind, sun after sun,

O master, whither do we go?

"Are we for some palmed port of Fars,

Or tombed Kerbela, or Baghdad

The Town-of-Knowledge-of-the-Stars?

Is worship wise or are we mad?"

Answered the poet: "Do we ask

Allah to buy each Friday's throng?

None to whom worship is a task

Should join the caravan of song.

"With heart and eyes unquestioning, friend,

We follow love from sea to sea,

And Love and Prayer have common end:

'May God be merciful to me!'"

So fared they, camped from noon to even,

Till dawn, quick-groping through the gloom,

Pounced on gilt planets low in heaven.

Thus they beheld the domes of Kum.

And onward nightly. Though the dust

Swirled in dread shapes of desert Jinn,

Ever the footsore poet's trust

Soared to the jewelled palanquin,

Parched, but still singing: "God, being great,

Lent me a star from sea to sea,

The drop in his hand-hollow, Fate.

He holds it high, and signs to me

"Although She—She may not ..."

"For thirst

My songs and dreams like mirage fail.

Yea, mad "—his fellow pilgrim cursed—

"I was. The Queen lifts not her veil."

"Put no conditions to her glance,

O happy desert, where the guide

Is Love's own self, Life's only chance ..."

He saw not where the other died,

But pressed on strongly, loth to halt

At Persia's pride, Rose-Ispahan,

Whose hawks are bathed in pure cobalt.

To meet the singing caravan

Came henna-bearded prince and sage

With henna-fingered houris, who

Strove to retard the pilgrimage,

Saying: "Our streets are fair and you

"A poet. Sing of us instead.

God may be good, but life is short.

Yon are the mountains of the dead.

Here are clean robes to wear at court."

He said: "I seek a bliss beyond

The range of your muezzin-call.

Do birds cease song till heaven respond?

The road is naught. The Hope is all."

"You know not this Transcaspian Queen,

Or what the journey's end may be.

Fool among Allah's Muslimeen,

You chase a myth from sea to sea."

"Because I bargain not nor guess

If Waste or Garden wait for me,

Love gives me inner loveliness.

I hold to her from sea to sea."

So he was gone, nor seemed to care

For beckoning shade, or boasting brook,

Or human alabaster-ware

Flaunted before him in the suk,

Nor paused at sunburnt far Shiraz,

The home of sinful yellow wine,

Where morning mists, like violet gauze,

Deck the bare hills, and blossoms twine

In seething coloured foam around

The lighthouse minarets.

And sheer—

A thin cascade bereft of sound—

The track falls down to dank Bushír.

The caravan slipped to the plain.

Its song rose through the rising damp,

Till, through the grey stockade of rain,

The Gulf of Pearls shone like a lamp.

Here waiting rode a giant dhow,

Each hand a captive Roumi lord,

Who rose despite his chains to bow

As straight her beauty went aboard,

Sailed. For the Tableland of Rhyme?

The Crystal Archipelago?

Who knows! This happened on a time

Among the times of long ago.

He only, Dreamer-of-the-Age,

Was left alone upon the sands,

The goal of his long pilgrimage,

The soil of all the promised lands,

Watching the dhow cut like a sword

The leaden waves. Yet, ere she sailed,

God poured on broken eyes reward

Out of Heaven's heart.

The Queen unveiled.

There for a space fulfilment shone,

While worship had his soul for priest

And altar. Then the light was gone,

And on the sea the singing ceased.

And is this all my story? Yes,

Save that the Sufi's dream is true.

Dearest, in its deep lowliness

This tale is told of me and you.

O love of mine, while I have breath,

Whatever my last fate shall be,

I seek you, you alone, till death

With all my life—from sea to sea.

And God be merciful to me.