Classic Poem

Lonely and unadorned is the last bed of the desert rider,
When death seizes his throat as the eclipse seizes the moon,
When Fate gathers the thousand arrows beneath her arm-pits.

There are here no gold-hilted Bokharan scimitars,
No crimson, jingling trappings of Turkish Beks,
No brocaded cloaks nor great belts of Volga leather.
For naked I came from the bosom of God.
Naked I return.

You, O pilgrim, when you ride past my grave, stop.
Pass not without a thought for me.
Remember that only yesterday I was even as you.
Remember that tomorrow you will be even as I.