ABSTRACT
Whitened bones our path are showing, Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing! Hear us, tell us where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?
Moons of marches from our eyes Bornou land behind us lies; Stranger round us day by day Bends the desert circle gray; Wild the waves of sand are flowing, Hot the winds above them blowing,— Lord of all things!—where are we going?
