The Assembly of the gods of the ancient people
That tempestuous wind, those night black clouds— in their darkness the lightning itself had lost its lustre;
an ocean suspended in their air, its skirt rent, few pearls pouring,
its shore invisible, its waves high surging, high surging, powerless to battle with the winds.
Rumi and I in that sea of pitch were as phantoms in the bedchamber of the mind—
he much travelled, I new to travel, my eyes impatient to gaze abroad.
Continually I cried: ‘My sight is inadequate, I do not see where the other world may be!’
Presently a mountain range appeared, a river, a broad meadow appeared,
mountain and plain embracing a hundred springtides— fragrant with musk came the breeze from the hills.
Songs of birds conspiring together, fountains, and verdant herbs half grown.
The body was fortified by the emanation of that air, the pure spirit in the flesh keener of vision.
I fixed my gaze on the top of a mountain; joyful the mountain, the slope, the stretching plain;
a lovely valley, even, not sinking nor rising— the water of Khizr would have need of such a land.
In this valley were the ancient gods, there the God of Egypt, here the Lord of Yemen,
there a Lord of the Arabs, here of Iraq, this one the god of union, that the god of separation,
here an offspring of the sun, and the moon’s son in law, another looking to the consort of Jupiter,
one holding a two edged sword in his hand, another with a serpent wreathed about his throat.
Each one was trembling at the Beautiful Name, each wounded by the smiting of Abraham.
Mardukh said: ‘Man has fled from God, fled from church and sanctuary, lamenting,
and to augment his vision and perception turns his gaze backwards to the past age.
He takes delight in ancient relics, makes speeches about our theophanies.
Time has revealed a new legend; a favourable wind is wafting from younder earth.’
Baal in excess of joy chanted sweetly unveiling our secrets to the gods.
Song of Baal
Man has rent yonder azure veil and, beyond the sky, has seen no God.
What is there in man’s heart but thoughts, like waves this upsurging and that fleeing?
His soul takes repose in the sensible; would that the past age might return!
Long live the European orientalist who has drawn us forth from the tomb!
Ancient gods, our time has come!
Behold, the ring of unity is broken, Abraham’s people have lost the joy of Alast;
its company is scattered, its cup in fragments, the cup which was drunken with the wine of Gabriel.
Free man has fallen into the bonds of directions, joined up with fatherland and parted from God;
his blood is cold of the glory of the ancients, the Elder of the Sanctuary has tied the Magian girdle.
Ancient gods, our time has come!
The days of joy have returned to the world, religion has been routed by sovereignty and lineage.
What thought is there now of the lamp of the Chosen One, seeing that a hundred Bu Lahabs blow it out?
Though the cry ‘There is no god’ rises up still how should that remain on the lips which has gone from the heart?
The West’s enchantment has revived Ahriman; the day of God is pale cheeked, fearful of the night.
Ancient gods, our time has come!
Religion’s chain must be loosed from his neck, our slave was ever a free slave;
since the ritual prayers are heavy for him, we seek only one prayer, and that without prostration.
Passions are elevated by songs, so what pleasure is there in prayers without hymns?
Better the demon that makes itself visible than a God to whom the Unseen is meet.
Ancient gods, our time has come!