Classic Poem

My soul once was pagan,
My body once flesh.
I was my own master,
Free from any mesh.
But now I go to the desert,
And God burns in the sand;
And if I flee to the mountain,
Its peak is His right hand.

The tavern vats ran ruddy;
Their ecstasy was mine;
And dancing-girls flung round me
Rhythm's beauteous vine.
But now the khan I rest in
Has ashes on the floor,
And the voice of God fills it,
That and nothing more.

I have become a question,
I have become a doubt,
Through which mystic fevers
Wander in and out.
Life now to me is only
A swaying minaret,
Which Death mounts thrice daily,
That I may not forget.