The 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 : 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 heart with thy spell of youth............