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Best Famous Allah Poems

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Written by W. E. B. Du Bois | Create an image from this poem

The Prayers of God

Name of God's Name!
Red murder reigns;
All hell is loose;
On gold autumnal air
Walk grinning devils, barbed and hoofed;
While high on hills of hate,
Black-blossomed, crimson-sky'd,
Thou sittest, dumb.
Father Almighty!
This earth is mad!
Palsied, our cunning hands;
Rotten, our gold;
Our argosies reel and stagger
Over empty seas;
All the long aisles
Of Thy Great Temples, God,
Stink with the entrails
Of our souls.
And Thou art dumb.
Above the thunder of Thy Thunders, Lord,
Lightening Thy Lightnings,
Rings and roars
The dark damnation
Of this hell of war.
Red piles the pulp of hearts and heads
And little children's hands.
Very God of God!
Death is here!
Dead are the living; deep—dead the dead.
Dying are earth's unborn—
The babes' wide eyes of genius and of joy,
Poems and prayers, sun-glows and earth-songs,
Great-pictured dreams,
Enmarbled phantasies,
High hymning heavens—all
In this dread night
Writhe and shriek and choke and die
This long ghost-night—
While Thou art dumb.
Have mercy!
Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!
Stand forth, unveil Thy Face,
Pour down the light
That seethes above Thy Throne,
And blaze this devil's dance to darkness!
In Christ's Great Name—
I hear!
Forgive me, God!
Above the thunder I hearkened;
Beneath the silence, now,—
I hear!
(Wait, God, a little space.
It is so strange to talk with Thee—
This gold?
I took it.
Is it Thine?
Forgive; I did not know.
Blood? Is it wet with blood?
'Tis from my brother's hands.
(I know; his hands are mine.)
It flowed for Thee, O Lord.
War? Not so; not war—
Dominion, Lord, and over black, not white;
Black, brown, and fawn,
And not Thy Chosen Brood, O God,
We murdered.
To build Thy Kingdom,
To drape our wives and little ones,
And set their souls a-glitter—
For this we killed these lesser breeds
And civilized their dead,
Raping red rubber, diamonds, cocoa, gold!
For this, too, once, and in Thy Name,
I lynched a ******—
(He raved and writhed,
I heard him cry,
I felt the life-light leap and lie,
I saw him crackle there, on high,
I watched him wither!)
I lynched Thee?
Awake me, God! I sleep!
What was that awful word Thou saidst?
That black and riven thing—was it Thee?
That gasp—was it Thine?
This pain—is it Thine?
Are, then, these bullets piercing Thee?
Have all the wars of all the world,
Down all dim time, drawn blood from Thee?
Have all the lies and thefts and hates—
Is this Thy Crucifixion, God,
And not that funny, little cross,
With vinegar and thorns?
Is this Thy kingdom here, not there,
This stone and stucco drift of dreams?
I sense that low and awful cry—
Who cries?
Who weeps?
With silent sob that rends and tears—
Can God sob?
Who prays?
I hear strong prayers throng by,
Like mighty winds on dusky moors—
Can God pray?
Prayest Thou, Lord, and to me?
Thou needest me?
Thou needest me?
Thou needest me?
Poor, wounded soul!
Of this I never dreamed. I thought—
Courage, God,
I come!

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem


 Trees in groves,
Kine in droves,
In ocean sport the scaly herds,
Wedge-like cleave the air the birds,
To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks,
Browse the mountain sheep in flocks,
Men consort in camp and town,
But the poet dwells alone.
God who gave to him the lyre, Of all mortals the desire, For all breathing men's behoof, Straitly charged him, "Sit aloof;" Annexed a warning, poets say, To the bright premium,— Ever when twain together play, Shall the harp be dumb.
Many may come, But one shall sing; Two touch the string, The harp is dumb.
Though there come a million Wise Saadi dwells alone.
Yet Saadi loved the race of men,— No churl immured in cave or den,— In bower and hall He wants them all, Nor can dispense With Persia for his audience; They must give ear, Grow red with joy, and white with fear, Yet he has no companion, Come ten, or come a million, Good Saadi dwells alone.
Be thou ware where Saadi dwells.
Gladly round that golden lamp Sylvan deities encamp, And simple maids and noble youth Are welcome to the man of truth.
Most welcome they who need him most, They feed the spring which they exhaust: For greater need Draws better deed: But, critic, spare thy vanity, Nor show thy pompous parts, To vex with odious subtlety The cheerer of men's hearts.
Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say Endless dirges to decay; Never in the blaze of light Lose the shudder of midnight; And at overflowing noon, Hear wolves barking at the moon; In the bower of dalliance sweet Hear the far Avenger's feet; And shake before those awful Powers Who in their pride forgive not ours.
Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach; "Bard, when thee would Allah teach, And lift thee to his holy mount, He sends thee from his bitter fount, Wormwood; saying, Go thy ways, Drink not the Malaga of praise, But do the deed thy fellows hate, And compromise thy peaceful state.
Smite the white breasts which thee fed, Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head Of them thou shouldst have comforted.
For out of woe and out of crime Draws the heart a lore sublime.
" And yet it seemeth not to me That the high gods love tragedy; For Saadi sat in the sun, And thanks was his contrition; For haircloth and for bloody whips, Had active hands and smiling lips; And yet his runes he rightly read, And to his folk his message sped.
Sunshine in his heart transferred Lighted each transparent word; And well could honoring Persia learn What Saadi wished to say; For Saadi's nightly stars did burn Brighter than Dschami's day.
Whispered the muse in Saadi's cot; O gentle Saadi, listen not, Tempted by thy praise of wit, Or by thirst and appetite For the talents not thine own, To sons of contradiction.
Never, sun of eastern morning, Follow falsehood, follow scorning, Denounce who will, who will, deny, And pile the hills to scale the sky; Let theist, atheist, pantheist, Define and wrangle how they list,— Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer, But thou joy-giver and enjoyer, Unknowing war, unknowing crime, Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme.
Heed not what the brawlers say, Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
Let the great world bustle on With war and trade, with camp and town.
A thousand men shall dig and eat, At forge and furnace thousands sweat, And thousands sail the purple sea, And give or take the stroke of war, Or crowd the market and bazaar.
Oft shall war end, and peace return, And cities rise where cities burn, Ere one man my hill shall climb, Who can turn the golden rhyme; Let them manage how they may, Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
Seek the living among the dead: Man in man is imprisoned.
Barefooted Dervish is not poor, If fate unlock his bosom's door.
So that what his eye hath seen His tongue can paint, as bright, as keen, And what his tender heart hath felt, With equal fire thy heart shall melt.
For, whom the muses shine upon, And touch with soft persuasion, His words like a storm-wind can bring Terror and beauty on their wing; In his every syllable Lurketh nature veritable; And though he speak in midnight dark, In heaven, no star; on earth, no spark; Yet before the listener's eye Swims the world in ecstasy, The forest waves, the morning breaks, The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes, Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be, And life pulsates in rock or tree.
Saadi! so far thy words shall reach; Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech.
And thus to Saadi said the muse; Eat thou the bread which men refuse; Flee from the goods which from thee flee; Seek nothing; Fortune seeketh thee.
Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep The midway of the eternal deep; Wish not to fill the isles with eyes To fetch thee birds of paradise; On thine orchard's edge belong All the brass of plume and song; Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass For proverbs in the market-place; Through mountains bored by regal art Toil whistles as he drives his cart.
Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind, A poet or a friend to find; Behold, he watches at the door, Behold his shadow on the floor.
Open innumerable doors, The heaven where unveiled Allah pours The flood of truth, the flood of good, The seraph's and the cherub's food; Those doors are men; the pariah kind Admits thee to the perfect Mind.
Seek not beyond thy cottage wall Redeemer that can yield thee all.
While thou sittest at thy door, On the desert's yellow floor, Listening to the gray-haired crones, Foolish gossips, ancient drones,— Saadi, see, they rise in stature To the height of mighty nature, And the secret stands revealed Fraudulent Time in vain concealed, That blessed gods in servile masks Plied for thee thy household tasks.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad of the Kings Jest

 When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass.
Lean are the camels but fat the frails, Light are the purses but heavy the bales, As the snowbound trade of the North comes down To the market-square of Peshawur town.
In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, A kafila camped at the foot of the hill.
Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; And the picketed ponies, shag and wild, Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; And the bubbling camels beside the load Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk A savour of camels and carpets and musk, A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke.
The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, The knives were whetted and -- then came I To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, Patching his bridles and counting his gear, Crammed with the gossip of half a year.
But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, "Better is speech when the belly is fed.
" So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, And he who never hath tasted the food, By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good.
We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth.
Four things greater than all things are, -- Women and Horses and Power and War.
We spake of them all, but the last the most, For I sought a word of a Russian post, Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford.
Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes In the fashion of one who is weaving lies.
Quoth he: "Of the Russians who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray.
But we look that the gloom of the night shall die In the morning flush of a blood-red sky.
Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
That unsought counsel is cursed of God Attesteth the story of Wali Dad.
"His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; And the colt bred close to the vice of each, For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech.
Therewith madness -- so that he sought The favour of kings at the Kabul court; And travelled, in hope of honour, far To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are.
There have I journeyed too -- but I Saw naught, said naught, and -- did not die! He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath Of `this one knoweth' and `that one saith', -- Legends that ran from mouth to mouth Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South.
These have I also heard -- they pass With each new spring and the winter grass.
"Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, Back to the city ran Wali Dad, Even to Kabul -- in full durbar The King held talk with his Chief in War.
Into the press of the crowd he broke, And what he had heard of the coming spoke.
"Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, As a mother might on a babbling child; But those who would laugh restrained their breath, When the face of the King showed dark as death.
Evil it is in full durbar To cry to a ruler of gathering war! Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, That grew by a cleft of the city wall.
And he said to the boy: `They shall praise thy zeal So long as the red spurt follows the steel.
And the Russ is upon us even now? Great is thy prudence -- await them, thou.
Watch from the tree.
Thou art young and strong, Surely thy vigil is not for long.
The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran? Surely an hour shall bring their van.
Wait and watch.
When the host is near, Shout aloud that my men may hear.
' "Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? A guard was set that he might not flee -- A score of bayonets ringed the tree.
The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, When he shook at his death as he looked below.
By the power of God, who alone is great, Till the seventh day he fought with his fate.
Then madness took him, and men declare He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, And sleep the cord of his hands untied, And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.
"Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
Of the gray-coat coming who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray.
Two things greater than all things are, The first is Love, and the second War.
And since we know not how War may prove, Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!"
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Legend of Mirth

 The Four Archangels, so the legends tell,
Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, Azrael,
Being first of those to whom the Power was shown
Stood first of all the Host before The Throne,
And, when the Charges were allotted, burst
Tumultuous-winged from out the assembly first.
Zeal was their spur that bade them strictly heed Their own high judgment on their lightest deed.
Zeal was their spur that, when relief was given, Urged them unwearied to new toils in Heaven; For Honour's sake perfecting every task Beyond what e 'en Perfection's self could ask.
And Allah, Who created Zeal and Pride, Knows how the twain are perilous-near allied.
It chanced on one of Heaven's long-lighted days, The Four and all the Host being gone their ways Each to his Charge, the shining Courts were void Save for one Seraph whom no charge employed, With folden wings and slumber-threatened brow, To whom The Word: "Beloved, what dost thou?" "By the Permission," came the answer soft, Little I do nor do that little oft.
As is The Will in Heaven so on Earth Where by The Will I strive to make men mirth" He ceased and sped, hearing The Word once more: " Beloved, go thy way and greet the Four.
" Systems and Universes overpast, The Seraph came upon the Four, at last, Guiding and guarding with devoted mind The tedious generations of mankind Who lent at most unwilling ear and eye When they could not escape the ministry.
Yet, patient, faithful, firm, persistent, just Toward all that gross, indifferent, facile dust, The Archangels laboured to discharge their trust By precept and example, prayer and law, Advice, reproof, and rule, but, labouring, saw Each in his fellows' countenance confessed, The Doubt that sickens: "Have I done my best?" Even as they sighed and turned to toil anew, The Seraph hailed them with observance due; And, after some fit talk of higher things, Touched tentative on mundane happenings.
This they permitting, he, emboldened thus, Prolused of humankind promiscuous, And, since the large contention less avails Than instances observed, he told them tales-- Tales of the shop, the bed, the court, the street, Intimate, elemental, indiscreet: Occasions where Confusion smiting swift Piles jest on jest as snow-slides pile the drift Whence, one by one, beneath derisive skies, The victims' bare, bewildered heads arise-- Tales of the passing of the spirit, graced With humour blinding as the doom it faced-- Stark tales of ribaldy that broke aside To tears, by laughter swallowed ere they dried- Tales to which neither grace nor gain accrue, But Only (Allah be exalted!) true, And only, as the Seraph showed that night, Delighting to the limits of delight.
These he rehearsed with artful pause and halt, And such pretence of memory at fault, That soon the Four--so well the bait was thrown-- Came to his aid with memories of their own-- Matters dismissed long since as small or vain, Whereof the high significance had lain Hid, till the ungirt glosses made it plain.
Then, as enlightenment came broad and fast, Each marvelled at his own oblivious past Until--the Gates of Laughter opened wide-- The Four, with that bland Seraph at their side, While they recalled, compared, and amplified, In utter mirth forgot both Zeal and Pride! High over Heaven the lamps of midnight burned Ere, weak with merriment, the Four returned, Not in that order they were wont to keep-- Pinion to pinion answering, sweep for sweep, In awful diapason heard afar-- But shoutingly adrift 'twixt star and star; Reeling a planet's orbit left or right As laughter took them in the abysmal Night; Or, by the point of some remembered jest, Winged and brought helpless down through gulfs unguessed, Where the blank worlds that gather to the birth Leaped in the Womb of Darkness at their mirth, And e'en Gehenna's bondsmen understood.
They were not damned from human brotherhood .
Not first nor last of Heaven's high Host, the Four That night took place beneath The Throne once more.
0 lovelier than their morning majesty, The understanding light behind the eye! 0 more compelling than their old command, The new-learned friendly gesture of the hand! 0 sweeter than their zealous fellowship, The wise half-smile that passed from lip to lip! 0 well and roundly, when Command was given, They told their tale against themselves to Heaven, And in the silence, waiting on The Word, Received the Peace and Pardon of The Lord!
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Light That Failed

 So we settled it all when the storm was done
As comfy as comfy could be;
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,
Because I was only three.
And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot Because he was five and a man-- And that's how it all began, my dears, And that's how it all began! Then we brought the lances down--then the trumpets blew-- When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.
Ridin'--ridin'--ridin' two an' two! Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a! All the way to Kandahar, Ridin' two an' two.
The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away; And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
"I have a thousand men," said he, "To wait upon my will; And towers nine upon the Tyne, And three upon the Till.
" "And what care I for your men? " said she, "Or towers from Tyne to Till? Sith you must go with me," said she, "To wait upon my will.
And you may lead a thousand men Nor ever draw the rein, But before you lead the Fairy Queen 'Twill burst your heart in twain.
" He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, The bridle from his hand, And he is bound by hand and foot To the Queen of Fairy Land.
"If I have taken the common clay And wrought it cunningly In the shape of a God that was digged a clod, The greater honour to me.
" "If thou hast taken the common clay, And thy hands be not free From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil The greater shame to thee.
" The lark will make her hymn to God, The partridge call her brood, While I forget the heath I trod, The fields wherein I stood.
'Tis dule to know not night from morn, But greater dule to know I can but hear the hunter's horn That once I used to blow.
There were three friends that buried the fourth, The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes, And they .
went south and east and north-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies-- "And would he were here with us now," they said, "The Sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.
" Yet at the last ere our spearmen had found him, Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, Yet at the last, with his masters around him, He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last though the Kafirs had maimed him, Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him, He colled on Allah and died a Believer!

Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

The Playground of Life XIX

 One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty 
And Love is worth a full century of glory 
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man's Truth; and During that century Truth sleeps between The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself The Natural Law, and for that century she Imprisons herself behind the law of man; And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs Of Solomon, an that century was the blind Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is Purified by flaming sorrow and Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent On self-investment taken solely from Earthly substance.
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages; Recorded earthly for centuries; Lived in strangeness for years; Sung as a hymn for days; Exalted but for an hour, but the Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

The Atheist

 Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
the wine the drawer of the wine,

And Him that planted first the grape-
o podex, in thy vault there dwells
A charm to make the member mad,
And shake the marrow of the spine.
O member, in thy stubborn strenght a power avails on podex-sense To boil the blood in breast and brain; shudder the nreves incarnadine! From me thou drawest pearly drink - and in its pourings both are drunk.
The Iman drives forth the drunken man from out the marble prayer-shrine.
Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh which should be master of the night- But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh when in the sky the sun doth shine? Now El Qahar to Hazif gives the worship unto poets due : - But songs are nought and Music all; what poet music may define? Allah's the atheist! he owns no Allah.
Sneer, thou dullard churl! The Sufi worships not, but drinks, being himself the all-divine.
Come, my Habib, the roses blush, the waters gleam, the bulbul sings - To pierce thy podex El Quahar's urgent and and imminent design!
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Kitcheners School


Being a translation of the song that was made by a Mohammedanschoolmaster of Bengal Infantry (some time on service at Suakim)when he heard that Kitchener was taking money from the English tobuild a Madrissa for Hubshees -- or a college for the Sudanese.
Oh Hubshee, carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast! This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest.
It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years; Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs.
He stamped only before your walls, and the Tomb ye knew was dust: He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust: He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong: He said: -- " Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long.
" He said: -- "Go safely, being abased.
I have accomplished my vow.
" That was the mercy of Kitchener.
Cometh his madness now! He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise: He is preparing a second host -- an army to make you wise.
Not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name again, But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouths of his chosen men.
He has gone back to his own city, not seeking presents or bribes, But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and scribes.
Knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live, He begs for money to bring you learning -- and all the English give.
It is their treasure -- it is their pleasure -- thus are their hearts inclined: For Allah created the English mad -- the maddest of all mankind! They do not consider the Meaning ofThings; they consult not creed nor clan.
Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a man! They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon cool, They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school.
How is this reason (which is their reason) to judge a scholar's worth, By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth? But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more strange, Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars change: Till these make come and go great boats or engines upon the rail (But always the English watch near by to prop them when they fail); Till these make laws of their own choice and Judges of their And all the mad English obey the Judges and say that that Law is good.
Certainly they were mad from of old; but I think one new thing, That the magic whereby they work their magic -- wherefrom their fortunes spring -- May be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in return.
Wherefore, since ye are bond to that magic, O Hubshee, make haste and learn! Certainly also is Kitchener mad.
But one sure thing I know -- If he who broke you be minded to teach you, to his Madrissa go! Go, and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast, For he who did not slay you in sport, he will not teach you in jest.
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

On - On - Poet

 I to the open road,
You to the hunchbacked street -
Which of us two
Shall the earlier rue
That day we chanced to meet?

I with a heart that's sound,
You with sick fancies of pain -
Which of us two
Would the earlier rue
If we chanced to meet again?

I jingle homely lore,
While you rhyme is with kiss -
Which of us two
Will the earlier rue
The love of the Hoylake Miss?

Not I the first to go,
Nor I the first to deceive -
Which of us two
Shall the the earliest rue
Our garden of make-believe? 

You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,

To sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low, Yet I heard a voice that cried: For he is the god of the Sacrifice, You are the crucified.
It was all make-believe, A foolish game of play, Our garden of Allah A drawing-room, Our Chinese god of clay.
Strings of bruises for pearls, Tears for forget-me-nots, And a deadly pain Of the sickening shame Watching the fading spots.
As quickly they faded, The heart of me faded as well, Until nothing is left Of my garden, But a soul sunk to hell.
Hail! Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire, No more together we'll enter the Enchanted garden of make-believe, Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.
No more you'll be the God of Sacrifice, Nor I the crucified.
Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet Thy fruit.
Why breakest thou the heart? Why spoilest thou the soul with notes From thy golden lute? Lo! our garden a common room Our Chinese god burnt clay, and The singing of verses a funeral hymn That awakes with awakening day.
'Twas all such a meaningless play, Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.
Hail! Poet, take my hand -we'll walk Still a little way.
I'll not desert thee at the close of day, I, too, must pray.
A beggar asking alms of passers-by, Does not refuse a drink to one who's dry That once by him did lie.
Poet, come close -before I leave for aye Take thou my hand, we'll walk still A little way.
One garment covered both to keep us warm, What harmed the one, was't not the other's harm? Close clasped, one single form.
Was it not meant of aye? Poet, take thou my hand -we'll still Walk a little way.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Two-Sided Man

 Much I owe to the Lands that grew--
More to the Lives that fed--
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.
Much I reflect on the Good and the True In the Faiths beneath the sun, But most to Allah Who gave me two Sides to my head, not one.
Wesley's following, Calvin's flock, White or yellow or bronze, Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok, Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze-- Here is a health, my brothers, to you, However your prayers are said, And praised be Allah Who gave me two Separate sides to my head! I would go without shirt or shoe, Friend, tobacco or bread, Sooner than lose for a minute the two Separate sides of my head!