But my dew is storm-ridden, like the ocean. 40 My song is of another world than theirs: This bell calls other travellers to take the road. How many a poet after his death Opened our eyes when his own were closed, And journeyed forth again from nothingness 45 When roses blossomed o’er the earth of his grave! Albeit caravans have passed through this desert, They passed, as a camel steps, with little sound. But I am a lover: loud crying is my faith: The clamour of Judgement Day is one of my minions. 50 My song exceeds the range of the chord, Yet I do not fear that my lute will break. ‘Twere better for the waterdrop not to know my torrent, Whose fury should rather madden the sea. No river will contain my Omán:[24] 55 My flood requires whole seas to hold it. Unless the bud expand into a bed of roses, It is unworthy of my spring-cloud’s bounty. Lightnings slumber within my soul, I sweep over mountain and plain. 60 Wrestle with my sea, if thou art a plain; Receive my lightning, if thou art a Sinai. The Fountain of Life hath been given me to drink, I have been made an adept of the mystery of Life. The speck of dust was vitalised by my burning song: 65 It unfolded wings and became a firefly. No one hath told the secret which I will tell Or threaded a pearl of thought like mine. Come, if thou would’st know the secret of everlasting life! Come, if thou would’st win both earth and heaven! 70 The old Guru of the Sky taught me this lore, I cannot hide it from my comrades.