212
THE EQUINOX
You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,
Το sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low,
Yet I heard a voice that cried:
For he is the god of the
Sacrifice,
You are the crucified.
It was all make—believe,
A foolish game of play,
Our garden of Allah
A drawing-room,
Our Chinese god of clay,
Strings of bruises for pearls,
Tears for forget-me—nots,
And a deadly pain
Of the sickening shame
W'atehing the fading spots,
As quickly they faded,
The heart of me faded as well,
Until nothing is left
Of my garden,
But a soul sunk to hell,