“Because God is not there in your temple,” said Narottam.
The King frowned and said, “Do you know, twenty millions of gold went to the making of that marvel of art, and it was consecrated to God with costly rites?”
“Yes, I know it,” answered Narottam.“It was in that year when thousands of your people whose houses had been burned stood vainly asking for help at your door.”
“And God said, ‘The poor creature who can give no shelter to his brothers would build my house’!”
“And he took his place with the shelterless under the trees by the road.”
“And that golden bubble is empty of all but hot vapour of pride.”
The King cried in anger, “Leave my land.”
Calmly said the saint,“Yes, banish me where you have banished my God.”
The trumpet lies in the dust.
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 blindness and palsy.
I have come to raise thy trumpet from the dust.
Sleep is no more for me-my walk shall be through showers of arrows.
Some shall run out of their houses and come to my side-some shall weep.
Some in their beds shall toss and groan in dire dreams.
For to-night thy trumpet shall be sounded.
From thee I have asked peace only to find shame.