Holy Simurgh, rainbow-splendid,
on the Tree of Life you dwell,
from assault of death and hell.
All the birds of all the nations
make your feathers bright with song,
larks in splendid exaltations,
nightingales in choral throng,
mockingbirds all notes returning,
swallow, sparrow, scornful jay;
phoenix cries in passion burning,
thunderbirds with lightning pray.
Hear the parrot, discourse speaking,
crows and ravens caw in time,
harmony that each was seeking
melding now in tune sublime.
Thirtyfold your feathered wonder,
more than peacock, more than hawk,
beating wings resound like thunder,
vast in wingspan like the roc.
Everywhere is your dominion,
souls you rescue from the grave;
by the gift of magic pinion
lives from devil-lands you save.
Ayesha in the Fire
Life beyond life no life can now bear,
nor fair beyond fair and yet still more fair,
for fire and light beyond all desire
will quicken the heart to nothing but fire.
We are not gods, nor burning with grace,
we apes of the gods, the whole mortal race,
and though we ascend, as we think, to high throne,
yet still in the darkness we end all alone.
Though shade be deferred by an imminent light,
yet stunted are those who flee from the night;
though long eons stretch, we snap and we die,
and dimness will fall on the brightest of eye,
as darkness will drag us to ash and to dust:
this fate, and none other, can mortal men trust.
In ash you will end, with nothing but name,
both quickened and slain by one glorious flame.
The breezes breathe upon my cheek,
the sylphan zephyrs sigh;
the heat of day now falls away
beneath the black of sky.
The flame of sun is beaten back,
the heart in uplift sings;
the track I travel through the night
beneath my footstep rings,
and soon the moon will rise and gleam
with light no shadow mars
amid a field a-bloom with dreams,
the sky semé with stars.