The Muezzin stumbles down the dark stairway
grumbling in his beard.
He passes the arch of the entrance and disappears.
Then the stifling silence settles down
over the City of Dreadful Night.
The kites on the Minar sleep again,
snoring more loudly,
the hot breeze
comes up in puffs and lazy eddies,
and the Moon slides down towards the horizon.
Seated with both elbows on the parapet of the tower,
one can watch and wonder
over that heat-tortured hive till the dawn.
‘How do they live down there?
What do they think of?
When will they awake?’
- Rudyard Kipling
50
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