|I have turned away from that place on earth|
Where sustenance takes the form of grain and water.
The solitude of the wilderness pleases me—
By nature I was always a hermit—
No spring breeze, no one plucking roses, no nightingale,
And no sickness of the songs of love!
One must shun the garden‑dwellers—
They have such seductive charms!
The wind of the desert is what gives
The stroke of the brave youth fighting in battle its effect.
I am not hungry for pigeon or dove—
For renunciation is the mark of an eagle’s life.
To swoop, withdraw and swoop again
Is only a pretext to keep up the heat of the blood.
East and West ‑these belong to the world of the pheasant,
The blue sky—vast, boundless—is mine!
I am the dervish of the kingdom of birds—
The eagle does not make nests.