We have opened the door,
Once, twice, thrice!
We have kindled the coals,
And we boil the rice
For the feast of souls.
Come hither, come hither!
Think not we fear you,
Whose hearts are so near you.
Come tenderly thought on,
Come all unforgotten,
Come from the shadow-lands,
From the dim meadow-lands
Where the pale grasses bend
Low to our sighing.
Come father, come mother,
Come sister and brother,
Come husband and friend,
The dead to the dying,
Come home!
We have opened the door
You entered so oft;
For the feast of souls
We have kindled the coals,
And we boil the rice soft.
Come you who are dearest
To us who are nearest,
Come hither, come hither,
From out the wild weather;
The storm clouds are flying,
The peepul is sighing;
Come in from the rain.
Come father, come mother,
Come sister and brother,
Come husband and lover,
Beneath our roof-cover.
Look on us again,
The dead on the dying.
Come home!
We have opened the door!
For the feast of souls
We have kindled the coals
We may kindle no more!
Snake, fever, and famine,
The curse of the Brahmin,
The sun and the dew,
They burn us, they bite us,
They waste us and smite us;
Our days are but few!
In strange lands far yonder
To wonder and wander
We hasten to you.
List then to our sighing,
While yet we are here:
Nor seeing nor hearing,
We wait without fearing
To feel you draw near.
O dead, to the dying
Come home!
THE KHAN’S DEVIL
The Khan came from Bokhara town
To Hamza, santon of renown.
“My head is sick, my hands are weak;
Thy help, O holy man, I seek.”
In silence marking for a space
The Khan’s red eyes and purple face,
Thick voice, and loose, uncertain tread,
“Thou hast a devil!” Hamza said.
“Allah forbid!” exclaimed the Khan,
“Rid me of him at once, O man!”
“Nay,” Hamza said, “no spell of mine
Can slay that cursed thing of thine.
“Leave feast and wine, go forth and drink
Water of healing on the brink
“Where clear and cold from mountain snows,
The Nahr el Zeben downward flows.
“Six moons remain, then come to me;
May Allah’s pity go with thee!”
Awestruck, from feast and wine the Khan
Went forth where Nahr el Zeben ran.
Roots were his food, the desert dust
His bed, the water quenched his thirst;
And when the sixth moon’s scimitar
Curved sharp above the evening star,
He sought again the santon’s door,
Not weak and trembling as before,
But strong of limb and clear of brain;
“Behold,” he said, “the fiend is slain.”
“Nay,” Hamza answered, “starved and drowned,
The curst one lies in death-like swound.
