and in your reckless folly you even hand over your very soul to the like of that; had you known the soul’s true worth, you would never have given it away.

Your youth has already turned grey, yet your childish self still refuses to age; your span has been squandered in nothing but diversion and play.

The sun of your life is now nearing its setting, though the last trace of light on the eastern rim has not yet vanished.

Whoever strove in earnest has already won the coveted union; the darkness of night and its clouds have lifted from his horizon.

How much longer will you lag behind, when the world has struck its tents and departed, and the messengers of your Lord have come to summon you?

Once the mounts of the One you love have moved on, these dwellings hold nothing for the lovesick—no gratitude, no desire.

So press your cheek into that very dust and say what the master of ancient longings once said (1):

“Not even the encampment of Mayya, ringed and haunted by Ghaylân, is sweeter to me than your desolate campsite—

a place I once loved and felt at home in when union lay within easy reach.

Nor are rosy cheeks, even when crimsoned with blood, more pleasing to my eyes than your ruined encampment. (2)

Each time those ruins are unveiled to him, he plunges toward them like water racing down a slope.

The memory of the pledges exchanged there rekindles his yearning; were he to summon his heart to forget, it would not respond.

All this, though there are countless spots on earth he is familiar with; yet through all time he has no desire for any but these.

No kindred spirit of longing lives in these tents to comfort you should you share a fragment of your love—so become a stranger and move on.

Travel under the cover of night, guided by a waft of fragrance, not by aloeswood and firewood.

Shun every companion of cowardice and helplessness, and wage war on your own soul, lest it cast you into ruin.