The wind is weary, the light is dead.

Ah, the evil day!

Come, fighters, carrying your flags, and singers, with your
war-songs!

Come, pilgrims of the march, hurrying on your journey!

The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.

I was on my way to the temple with my evening offerings, seeking
for a place of rest after the day's dusty toil: hoping my hurts
would be healed and the stains in my garment washed white, when I
found thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Was it not the hour for me to light my evening lamp?

Had not the night sung its lullaby to the stars?

O thou blood-red rose, my poppies of sleep have paled and faded!

I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts all paid when
suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Strike my drowsy heart with thy spell of youth!

Let my joy in life blaze up in fire. Let the shafts of awakening
fly through the heart of night, and a thrill of dread shake