XXI: He who placeth any hope upon the fabric…

He who placeth any hope upon the fabric of this world,
Embarketh, on a tour of the ocean, in a paper boat.

No one hitherto hath successfully run the steed of the sky--
How can one practise horsemanship on the back of the wind?

Neither can the wolf be instructed in the art of humanity,
Nor can any reliance be placed on the forbearance of fate.

Fortune revolveth equally with Islam and with idolatry--
When doth the blind make distinction 'twixt white and black?

With mine own eyes have I viewed the portents of destiny:
It createth thousands every moment, and destroyeth them too.

I am unable to place any such trust in fate's revolutions,
As that when its time cometh, it will grant exemption to me.

No one, indeed, will have experienced in his whole lifetime,
Such severity as the beloved-one, hourly, wreaketh upon me.

Should I venture to place in my turban a bud of the rose,
From it, my evil destiny produceth a thorn therein.

If I stretch forth my hand unto gold, it turneth into dust:
If I manifest desire for dust, it treateth me with scorn.

Separation from God is a great calamity, unbearable to me:
My distressed heart ever yearneth for society with Him.

When hath any lover acquired such an amount of patience,
That he putteth off, until to-morrow, the promise of to-day?

O heart ravisher! if thou shouldst even clothe me in fire,
In my sight, the garment will become me like gold brocade.

If, with regard to my love, any one should speak evil of me,
To myself I consider, that he is uttering my praise.

'Tis right that reproaches be heaped on the lover, the rule is such:
It is ever the custom of the healthy to laugh at the sick.

Honour and love are widely separated from each other--
How can one perpetrate a robbery in the light of day?

Rahman, this ode reciteth in reply to that which Dawlat wrote--
"Should the beloved present me continually the wine of her love!"