Caravans march at the sound of his bell And follow the voice of his pipe; But when his zephyr blows in our gardens, 715 We stay loitering amongst tulips and roses. His witchery makes Life develop itself And become self-questioning and impatient. He invites the whole world to his table; He lavishes his fire as though it were cheap as air. 720 Woe to a people that resigns itself to death, And whose poet turns away from the joy of living! His mirror shows beauty as ugliness, His honey leaves a hundred stings in the heart. His kiss robs the rose of freshness, 725 He takes away from the nightingale’s heart the joy of flying. Thy sinews are relaxed by his opium, Thou payest for his song with thy life. He bereaves the cypress of delight in its beauty, His cold breath makes a pheasant of the male falcon. 730 He is a fish, and from the breast upward a man, Like the Sirens in the ocean. With his song he enchants the pilot And casts the ship to the bottom of the sea. His melodies steal firmness from thine heart, 735 His magic persuades thee that death is life. He takes from thy soul the desire of existence, He extracts from thy mine the blushing ruby. He dresses gain in the garb of loss, He makes everything praiseworthy blameful. 740 He plunges thee in a sea of thought, He makes thee a stranger to action. He is sick, and by his words our sickness is increased: The more his cup goes round, the more sick are they that quaff it. There are no lightning-rains in his April, 745 His garden is a mirage of colour and perfume. His beauty hath no dealings with Truth, There are none but flawed pearls in his sea. Slumber he deemed sweeter than waking: Our fire was quenched by his breath. 750 By the chant of his nightingale the heart was poisoned: Under his heap of roses lurked a snake. Beware of his decanter and cup! Beware of his sparkling wine! O thou whom his wine hath laid low 755 And who look’st to his glass for thy rising dawn, O thou whose heart hath been chilled by his melodies, Thou hast drunk deadly poison through the ear! Thy way of life is a proof of thy degeneracy, The strings of thine instrument are out of tune. 760 ‘Tis pampered ease hath made thee so wretched, A disgrace to Islam throughout the world. One can bind thee with the vein of a rose, One can wound thee with a zephyr. Love hath been put to shame by thy wailing, 765 His fair picture hath been fouled by thy brush. Thy ill-usage hath paled his cheek, Thy coldness hath taken the glow from his fire. He is heartsick from thy heartsicknesses, And enfeebled by thy feeblenesses. 770 His cup is full of childish tears,