The ways of the West are calculating, the ways of the East are monkish;
there the times change from moment to moment, here the times see no change whatsoever.
Khidr, on the bank of the river, spoke to me thus in confidence:
all are the ways of sorcery, be the actor a king of dervish.
These people of the monasteries look upon me as their rival;
they fear lest my beautiful songs rent asunder the saint’s threshold stone.
This is the manifest symbol of the knowledge of the slave people:
What if the earth has limits! the whole expanse of Space is boundless.
I can’t see what it is: is it self-deception of deception of God?
Having invented the excuse of fate, the Muslim has ceased to act meaningfully.
The rose twig made the hunter weep on seeing me caught in the net:
a charming sweet singer was he, his nest rested harmlessly on my branches. |
Home