The faithful villagers have scattered from the Mosque;
The echo of a muezzin's voice melts in the calm of dusk;
And the horizon blushes deep, tinged with rubies.
The king of silver, crescent of the night,
Rises to his white throne to rest with his love.
The torches burn perpetually in the Harem of Allah.
In their midst, one cloud sails on the azure plain,
Like a swan asleep on the mirror of a lake
With ghost-like breast and wings edged with gold.
A shadow falls from minaret and cypress.
Further out, granite giants frown as they hold council
Like Daemons gathered at the Court of Eblis:
Shadows are their pavilion. Lightning strikes, at times,
Down from their brow, and with the speed of Faris,
Rends all the silences of sapphire space.
