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?
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