The past is dead, the future unknown,
This is the only truth;
The world awaits with eagerness
The age that will soon emerge.
I know them all,
But know them at a different level;
Using some, and used by others,
And playing the mentor to a few.
The astrologer’s eye
Knows not my restless nature;
An eye not enlightened
Will miss the mark outright.
Sunset it is not, but blood—
Blood streaming in the firmament;
Today is dying into yesterday;
Wait for the silver streak.
The reckless minds that have unleashed
The frightening powers of nature,
Now wait in fear for the thunderbolt
That will destroy their homes.
The winds, the seas, and the ships,
Are all at their command;
But the whirlpools, minions of fate,
Are coiling to swallow them up.
The old world, which the West
Had made a gambling den,
Is breathing its last,
Yielding place to new.
The dervish, who is kingly
In his power of faith,
Will live, though the storms
Blast the thrones of kings.