The Twenty-Fourth Hour
At the twenty-fourth hour,
by Ali AlMajnooni
When nightly chants are scarcely sung
By the happy nightingale’s tongue
With a cunning power.
When the dark veils the globe,
And the moon casts its silver beams
Among filmy clouds where each seems
Like a descending rope.
When the wave comes and goes
Along pebbled shores to call me,
And the gentle breeze of the sea
Through windows softly blows.
And the drops of the dew
Form on the tender leaves of trees
As glassy beads that dwell at ease
In the bed of the blue.
My candle starts to wink,
And above my still desk I keep
Paper sheets lying in a heap,
And thirsty for some ink.