Too Late - Poem by Ali AlMajnooni
Awake me not, friend, and call me no more,
For no longer does blood run in my veins.
And for this sleep will last more than before,
You will not spot me in such withering pains.
Take back your checking hand- it is too late.
This dull machine cannot keep on its breath,
And my wearied bones seem content with fate
That set them to rest, and to yield to death.
Blinds over windows, through which I could see
My life, are now dropped and forever drawn.
And my lantern’s light that always led me
Among darkling ways is dimmed after shone.
The strings of my dulcimer are made dumb,
And my hand is weak to wave a Good-bye.
Until your last minutes (like did mine) come,
It is your turn, friend, to lament and cry.
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