O lovers, lovers — it is time to set out from the world. I hear a drum from my soul’s ear, coming from the depths of the stars… Our camel driver is at work: the caravan is being readied. He asks that we forgive him for the disturbance he has caused us. He asks why we travelers are asleep. Everywhere the murmur of departure; the stars, like candles, thrust at us from behind blue veils. And as if to make the invisible plane: a wondrous people have come forth.
I swear, since seeing your face, the whole world is fraud and fantasy. The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf or blossom. The distracted birds can’t distinguish the bird seed from the snare. A house of love with no limits: a presence more beautiful than venus or the moon. A beauty whose image fills the mirror of the heart.
Love is reckless, not reason. Reason seeks a profit; love comes on strong, consuming herself, unabashed. Yet, in the midst of suffering, love proceeds like a millstone: hard-surfaced and straightforward. Having died of self-interest, she risks everything and asks for nothing. Love gambles away every gift God bestows: without cause, God gave us Being; without cause, give it back again.
I am a sculptor, a molder of form: in every moment I shape an idol, but then, in front of you, I melt them down. I can rouse a hundred forms, and fill them with spirit — but when I look into your face, I want to throw them in the fire. My soul spills into yours and is blended; because my soul has absorbed your fragrance, I cherish it. Every drop of blood I spill informs the earth: I merge with my beloved when I participate in love. In this house of mood and water, my heart has fallen to ruins. Enter this house, my love, or let me leave. I am only the house of your beloved, not the beloved herself. True love is for the treasure, not for the coffer than contains it. The real beloved is that one who is unique. Who is your beginning and your end. When you find that one, you will no longer expect anything else. That is both the manifest, and the mystery. That one is the lord of states of feeling, dependent on none. Month and year are slaves to that moon; when he bids the state, it does his bidding. When that one wills, bodies become spirit. When the rose is gone, and the garden faded, you will no longer hear the nightengale’s song.
The Beloved is All; the lover, just a veil. The Beloved is living; the lover, a dead thing. If love witholds its strengthening care, the lover is left like a bird without care. The lover is left like a bird without wings. How will I be awake and aware, if the light of the beloved is absent? Love wills that this word be brought forth.