Soon as the East Wind heard these words of love He murmured loudly, thrilled with deep delight. Thus spoke he: “O thou, all afflicted one, Who from the love pang of thy secret wounds Groanest and sighest, like a man in love, Tell me where is the lady of thy love? Toward whom does thy soul’s intuition turn? Who is the Leila that enchains thee thus? Who is it that has burdened thee with grief? Where is the Schirin that thus plagues Ferhadan? Who is the Afra of thine ardent flame? Say to what king thou wouldst devote thy blood? For whom is it thou sufferest loss of rest? And whose compassion dost thou supplicate? What light in all the world has fame enough To keep thee moth-like hovering in its flame? And of what rose art thou the nightingale, That thou shouldst be the slave of music’s sound?” Thus spoke the warbler: “Gracious are thy words, And therefore will I make my chanson plain. From the first moment that I was conceived, Love with my inmost essence was entwined, And in my mother’s womb it came to me That love should be my only intellect. And that great painter Nature made for me The only form of beauty to be love. And since my life was in my spirit locked, Only by love can I my soul unlock. And without hindrance or reserve, so far, I have outpoured, unchecked, my song of love. Yet know I not for whom I burn, for whom By night and day I suffer in this flame. However may this flame continuous glow, I know not yet how it was kindled first. So runs my life; a solitary wight I live in ignorance of her I love, Of her who lit in me this flaming torch; To whom I ever lift this suppliant hand. Restless, ah me, these weary sighs I heave, Yet do not know the queen for whom I sigh. This bitter plight is all the life I know, Of all things else I am in ignorance. Now tell me, what thy current’s course may be, Whence comest thou, and whither dost thou wend? What message is it thou art sent upon, And who it is thou seekest in this land? What is the object of thy wandering search, And who thou art, and what thy name may be? What was the first beginning of thy life, And in what country was thine origin? Thou bringest fragrance of the truth sincere, And needst must be a creature trustworthy; Thy breath gives life to every human soul, And in thy fragrance is a human soul. The breath of health is certainly thy dower, Before it even the dead might come to life.” The East Wind to these golden words gave ear, Then answered: “Stranger, amiable and good, I, in return for all that thou hast told, Will tell my story with the strictest faith. I also, like Abdallah strenuous, Am in the same perplexity with thee. I think a child who is with beauty dowered As fickle and unstable as the wind;