��THE TRUMPET
Thy trumpet lies in the dust.
The wind is weary, the light is dead. Ah, the evil
day ! Come fighters, carrying your flags and singers with
your songs ! Come pilgrims, hurrying on your journey ! The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.
I was on my way to the temple with my evening
offerings, Seeking for the heaven of rest after the day's dusty
toil; Hoping my hurts would be healed and stains in my
garments washed white, When I found thy trumpet lying in the dust.
Has it not been the time for me to light my lamp?
Has my evening not come to bring me sleep ?
O, thou blood-rod rose, where have my poppies
faded y I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts
all paid When suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the
dust.
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