Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
Hadramauti
W
What are his measures and balances? Which is his season
For laughter, forbearance or bloodshed, and what devils move him
When he arises to smite us? I do not love him.
Booted, bareheaded he enters. With shouts and embraces
He asks of us news of the household whom we reckon nameless.
Certainly Allah created him forty-fold shameless!
The Avenger of Blood on his track—I took him in keeping.
Demanding not whom he had slain, I refreshed him, I fed him
As he were even a brother. But Eblis had bred him.
He talked with his head, hands and feet. I endured him with loathing.
Whatever his spirit conceived his countenance showed it
As a frog shows in a mud-puddle. Yet I abode it!
His soul was too shallow for silence, e’en with Death hunting him.
I said: “’Tis his weariness speaks,” but, when he had rested,
He chirped in my face like some sparrow, and, presently, jested!
I saddled my mare, Bijli, I set him upon her.
I gave him rice and goat’s flesh. He bared me to laughter.
When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after,
Taking my sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him.
Under the stars he mocked me—therefore I killed him!