To my eye the pleasures of the world are nothing but dust.
Except for blood, what else flows in the guts?

Turned to dust, the wings are now a spent force;
they might even blow away on the winds.

Who is this coming towards us with the very face
of heaven, his path strewn with roses, not dust?

I should have been kind to myself, even if she wasn’t.
How I have wasted my breath for nothing!

The mere thought of spring makes them drunk;
what had the tavern doors and walls to do with it?

I am ashamed of the violence of my own love.
In this ruined house how I had hoped to be a builder!

Today our verses, Asad, are only an idle pastime.
What’s the use of flaunting our talent, then?