True son of his soil.
Born to die in The Empty Quarter…
As the Bedouin lived,
The solitary limit of his ambition
Was to love God…
In the distance and nearer
To his dwelling:
Through the breeze and storms,
With the nib of his mind,
He embraced the moon,
And kissed each floweret star.

 

Even in day-dream,
Poetry was the rage.
Like the beauty of his beloved,
Poetry was the rage!
The presence of verse was divine,
Unbroken of feelings and of thought.
When night approached,
The Bedouin’s eyes of sleep converted:
Into brimming cups
Of elixir-words.
He dreamt of his poems and danced.

                          

Geeta Chhabra