Creation of Art


The craftsmen by their tact have built
Such works that Eden jealous make
The eyes endowed with sight can see
States hid that stir the heart and rake.

There is no Self nor usual change
Of morn and night at all is found
The Muslims have got rid entire
Of combats and shun such a round.

Ah! the infidel poor still
Pays homage to his idols old
Though their broken state lie knows,
Yet oil him they retain their hold.

You are a corpse and your art
The leader of your funeral rite
In pitch dark bed-room of the grave,
Of life the fellow catches sight.

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