Before I made my northern entry
And parted with the alien sun,
KazbŽk! The Orient's watchful sentry!
I've come to greet you like a son.
Forever does a snow-white turban
Your wrinkled brow from people hide;
You disregard our vain disturbance,
And do not see it in your pride.
But may my humble supplications
Soar upward to your cloudy height,
And farther on, through constellations,
Where Allah sits in all His might.
I pray that midday should be colder
And cool descend on dale and road,
That I might sit upon a boulder
And rest awhile without my load.
And may the storm and thunder rumbling,
Pass by me on my peaceful course,
And may it never send us tumbling--
Myself and my exhausted horse.
But I am torn by hesitation;
I wonder: shall I travel forth?
This is the end of separation. . .
But do they want me in the North?
Shall I recover any traces
Of friendships and attachments past?
Will tender greetings and embraces
Repay the trials through which I passed?
Or no one's master, no one's servant,
I'll find my friends and brethren dead?
The noble, charitable, fervent,
With whom I lived and looked ahead. . .
Should this be true, then, like a wizard,
KazbŽk, tell all your winds to blow,
And let a devastating blizzard
Enwrap my homeless dust in snow.
1837