Spain! You are the trustee of the Muslim
In my eyes you are sanctified like the Harem.
Prints of prostration lie hidden in your dust,
Silent calls to prayers in your morning air.
In your hills and vales were the tents of those,
The tips of whose lances were bright like the
Is more henna needed by your pretties?
My lifeblood can give them some colour!
How can a Muslim be put down by the straw
Even if his flame has lost its heat and fire!
My eyes watched Granada as well,
But the traveller’s content neither in journey
nor in rest:
I saw as well as showed, I spoke as well as
Neither seeing nor learning brings calm to the
The veiled secrets are becoming manifest—
Bygone the days of you cannot see Me;
Whosoever finds his self first,
Is Mahdi himself, the Guide of the Last Age.
Not: Written in Spain—on the way back.