XVIII: What peace, in this world, doth the heart…

What peace, in this world, doth the heart acquire,
Which ever quaketh and trembleth from dread of fortune's ills?

Thro' separation from the departed water, O thoughtless people!
Like the vortex, you have made strong your hearts, your breasts within.

Let not thy heart ever be unto this world's parterre given;
Since even the rose-bud, at last, left it heart-disordered behind.

Approach! behold the weeping of agony in tears of blood:
Like the wine-flask, my heart to shed blood I have brought.

The fissure therein, by the waters, was not filled up again;
And the whirlpool, like an anvil, hardened its heart unto pain.

Thou shalt, O Shaida! for flight, wings and feathers acquire,
If thou in the nest, like the egg, thine heart pure and spotless make.