The Tartar's Dream
|Prayer-mat and priestly turban have turned footpad,|
With wanton boys' bold glances men are flattered;
The Church's mantle and the creed in shreds,
The robe of State and nation torn and tattered.
I cling to faith but may its spark not soon
Lie quenched under these rubbish-heaps thick-scattered!
Bokhara's humble dust and Samarkand's
The turbulent billows of many winds have battered.
A gem set in a ring of misery
That circles me on every side, am I.
|Suddenly quivered the dust of Samarkand,|
And from an ancient tomb a light shone, pure
As the first gleam of daybreak, and a voice
Was heard:—“I am the spirit of Timur!
Chains may hold fast the men of Tartary,
But God's firm purposes no bonds endure
Is this what life holds—that Turania's peoples
All hope in one another must abjure?
Call in the soul of man a new fire to birth!
Cry a new revolution over the earth!”
Translated by: V.G. Kiernan