To Ibn Khaldun, Who Wrote A History of the World

O Ibn Khaldun!
Wrapped once about your turban
Lifted up inside your head
A thought to carry in the mind
I think we were once alright
Morning light on the Maghreb, sheer
Oh everything is still not clear
And the caravans go passing by, ah
Wander through the night
Over the blood in the sand
No everything is still not clear

And when you hear the sound of marching
In the tops of the balsam trees
Over the scarp of the dying stones
The broken unhealing scab
(The pilgrim’s feet shuffle over the earth)
We will rise up and say
All the things that time-
Yours, mine, and every rhyme-
Has left unsaid
Caught up in the echoing head
The songs in the balsam trees
(Is there a balm in Gilead?)
We are left to dream it
Write it down and sing