We have waited all night for you, and now the dawn is come.
From distant places we came—there can be no returning home.
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What God or gods or men will care to hear our tale—
Blind witless fellows on waves’ way who weep and rail?
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Well have you called yourself the Ocean of Mercy—
For your shadow the sea has now rejected us,
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Love loves not those whom love fattens, but makes destitute.
From the orchard’s winter ruin burgeons the summer fruit.
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Though fate a thousand times makes you a pawn in its game—do not give up:
Cling like a child to the skirt of your Beloved’s name.
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There are many gods and one God. How shall we find him?
The search is not ours; foot without nerve-message is a dead limb.
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All the world loves a lover; from his lips their song is sung.
Youth is the time of greenness; but age should gild a man’s tongue.
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We have stolen our eyes to admire the passing clouds,
And sold our fingers to seamstresses to sew our shrouds.
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You warned us that on this path was nothing but pain,
And we glibly assented, but now we complain.
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