Bewildered, folding sorrows in his breast,Who comforts him whose heart will find no rest?
He gathered naught save tears that freely fell,After a life spent hoarding goods as well;
He won no more than anguish of the soul,Worn out with hopes—life burned within him whole;
Then time, like ripened grain, made all come true,While night endured and all the regions grew;
Events and strife roared through the darkened land,Till distant light, a guiding beacon, spanned;
It led the lost toward paths of righteousness,He walked toward gardens gently manifest;
Like Syria's troop, the phantom rays of lightHe took for herbs—the ships' expected sight;
But when the dawn proved old within its tent,Fire kindled, fed by flames of discontent;
They cast their journeys in with smiling face,Burning their thoughts and art in that embrace;
Then passed in silence, heavy-hearted, on—These phantoms fade like mirage, and are gone;
Naught comes from what lies buried in the dust,The world is phantoms, cloudlike, as we must;
They breathe forth warmth and lure us with their gleam,While wanderers are lost behind time's stream;
What use a brilliant book, what use a tongueThat thundered forth when genius first was young?
If freedom dawned among the sons of men,It strayed on paths of hope and wandering then;
Thus freedom finds adversity its foe;O traveller upon war's arduous road,
Aim well thy arrow—fear not battle's tide,Face treachery with will that will not bide;
Fear not the day of terrors on the scroll—Each matter rests within the realm of soul;
The cock crowed out—rejoice in gladness then,For on the horizon dawned fair light again;
Go forth with certainty and hope combined,Let no collapsing ruin shake thy mind;
Walk on, nor heed the lure of favours shown,Nor court the grace that others would enthrone.
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