Hail! Samarkand, end
of all roads
Proud abode of the
great and good
Light of the desert,
sight for sore eyes
Balm to the weary of
heart and foot.
The sun sets on Her
pearly domes
And shatters into a
million lights
Her bazaars fill
with men and wares
Her gardens with all
earthly delights.
As they walk past
Her blessed gates
Both men and beasts
sigh in relief
For the day's
journey has come to an end
And tomorrow is but
a distant dream.
Among this throng of
travellers
Is a Viking of the
Russian tribe
And a Moroccan and a
Chinaman
With a hundred more
of every stripe.
They marvel at the
sights and sounds
And enjoy the
moonlit scented breeze
They plod along the
winding lanes
In search of a meal
and a place of ease.
Between the
palm-lined cobbled streets
Runs a lonely dark
gravel-lined lane
It harbours nought
but a lonely inn
At whose door stood
our heroes fain.
Well met good Sirs,
the innkeeper said
Please step over my
humble threshold
But the price of my
hospitality
Mark thee! Is not to
be paid in gold.
A tale I seek from
each of you
In exchange for
victuals and rest
As long as you can
entertain me
Your honours can
remain my guest.
Though puzzled by
this clause unique
They entered and sat
at his table
And as soon as their
meal was done
The Moroccan began
his fable.
