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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 12

One night I had in the desert of Mekkah become so weak from want of sleep that I was unable to walk and, laying myself down, told the camel driver to let me alone.

How far can the foot of a wretched pedestrian go
When a dromedary gets distressed by its load?
Whilst the body of a fat man becomes lean
A weak man will be dead of exhaustion.

He replied: ‘O brother, the sanctuary is in front of us and brigands in the rear. If thou goest thou wilt prosper. If thou sleepest thou wilt die.’

It is pleasant to sleep under an acacia on the desert road
But alas! thou must bid farewell to life on the night of departure.

poem by Sa di
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Mirage

Dust circles in motion
Heat dance on my shoes
Haunted by search and memory
Taunted by Kalahari day
Thirsty clouds break through the skies
Cricket armies start to hum
Pula e tla leng?
When will the rains come?

From the skies no word arrives
No echoes from the koppies
Only canopy of blue
That covers both the truth and dust
That would envelop me in lies.

A brief caress of breeze
On dry leaves of Acacia
But no relief for me
Perpetual on the desert ridge
Which overlooks but cannot reach

[...] Read more

poem by Frank Bana
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Highway Trees

They group communalized
Like a panchayat counselling
Gapped irregular
Mangoe, coconut, plantain trees

Like timeless sentinels
High-stumped palmyra trees
watchful sparsely
whilst fronded palms
Fanning to the highway-heaven

Territoried etching karuvelam(Acacia arabica)
There and there from side slopes
Often punishing dirtying feet
Whilst swinging banyan monkeys
Dancing to the whirring breeze

Templed at the trunks yellowy
Mewling little neem cradles
Holy threaded to augural shade

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Kalahari Butterflies

white blossoms in the air
one more spring in the exile I chose
that becomes addictive to itself

cold April London streets
and record bins in Soho basement stores
the damp smiles which invite me from afar

white Kalahari butterflies
the smell of fresh cow dung
the taste of ripe marula fruit is sweet

sitting by acacia trees
fingers in the shallow dusty soil
caressing Africa as a lover would

then she embraces me
like a soul in memory
an orphan child finding its mother's knee

[...] Read more

poem by Frank Bana
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Island of my Soul

The island in the distant places
Of my soul is quiet and light
Surrounded by savannah lake
A small ocean of sand, acacia
Slopes and hollow reaches
Imperceptible to sight

Not so much from day to day
Takes place, small business to transact
The trucks roll weekly through and raise
Their feather-tails of dust across
My soul horizon's face

Then they fall, recession lasts
Another seven days, the mail
Is read, the yellow stars
And blue mouth of the morning sky
Are smiling to be on our side

Protected island, shimmering

[...] Read more

poem by Frank Bana
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Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled --
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world, --
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams, --
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.

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poem by Dorothy Parker
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Inscriptions In The Ground Of Coleorton, The Seat Of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire

THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
Will not unwillingly their place resign;
If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by 's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains:
These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury!
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,

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poem by William Wordsworth
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One summer when the wind was strong

This is the place, now we are here again

I remember that summer when the wind was strong
And everything around us was dry,

The acacia trees towered and showered us with
Round leaves falling and falling and falling

Some birds were there and they flew away
Some cars were there and they speeded away

It was getting dark and it was a dry summer
We stayed there for a while when the leaves fell

Then we went under the trees not seeking shelter
But to catch those leaves falling and falling and falling

We are trying to feel again what falling was
We are here on this summer, we see the leaves

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oh, mother...[O, mamă...]

Oh, mother, dearest mother, although you passed away,
Through all the leaves that tremble, you call me every day;
Above your holy grave, the autumn gentle breeze
Shakes off the withered boughs of the acacia trees,
Which seem to hum along with your forgotten voice...
You will be sleeping always, they always will rejoice.

The day I die, my darling, for me, please, do not cry
Instead, break from the lime tree a twig scratching the sky
And put it in the ground, somewhere beside my head,
Then wet it at the roots with all the tears you'll shed;
And when it grows, its shadow will be just like a veil...
I shall be sleeping always, its shadow will prevail.

But if we die together – it's possible, who knows? –
They shouldn't put our bodies in graveyards to repose,
But let them dig a hollow somewhere, on open land,
And in a single coffin to put us, hand in hand;
For ever you will settle your head upon my chest...
We shall be sleeping always, the open land will rest.

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Father Explains

"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.

"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.

"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.

"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.

[...] Read more

poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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