Poems (Kennedy)/The Prayer Rug

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THE PRAYER RUG
AS supple as a tiger's skin With wine hues and with ochre blent,It lies upon my polished floor— Four square feet of the Orient.No more than that, yet space enough ​ On which to build a wonder-dreamOf that far town which, half asleep   And half a myth, Lies 'neath the crescent's golden gleam.
I see Bokhara's minarets Like sentries o'er the house-tops stand,And far away the dropping sky Melt in the desert's rippled sand.Through silence born of noonday heat And swooning radiance of the airI hear, from high muezzin tower   Like conscience-cry, The Moslem's solemn call to prayer.
And quick unrolling this bright rug I see its owner spread it downWhere'er he stands—in porch or street— And turn his face toward Mecca's town.On this straight line of woven flame His knees by Allah's law must rest;His feet and hands these squares must touch,   And in this niche Of softened hues his brow be pressed.
And prostrate thus, he makes his plea To Allah five times e'er the sun,A flaming chariot through the sky, Its course from dawn to dusk has run.This much I see with half-shut eyes, ​ Caught in the wierd rug's thralling snare,But, ah! I cannot catch the drift   Of mystic signs That fashioned forth the Moslem's prayer.
Prayed he that to his aged woes The Prophet's helping hand be lent,As answering the muezzin's call His wing-ed words to Allah went?Or yet—or yet, not old, but young— Young, with his pagan blood on fireWith life and love's eternal quest,   Prayed he instead To gain the port of Heart's Desire?
The while—his face set toward the East— He wore the rug smooth with his knees,Did he recall some harem girl Whose eyes flashed him love's dear decrees?I cannot tell; the rug gives back No faintest whisper of his prayer;He may have asked his rival's blood   On whetted blade, Or yielded him to love's despair.
I only know that o'er the leagues Of sand that's gold and sea that's brownA subtle thread spins in my brain To far Bokhara's sunlit town.And visions haunt me like dim dreams ​Whose baffling veil may ne'er be rent; I only know, or rich or poor,I hold in fief   Four square feet of the Orient.

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