You who are not kept anxiously awake for love's sake, sleep on.
In restless search for that river, we hurry along;
Lord, what a Beloved is mine! I have a sweet quarry; I possess
in my breast a hundred meadows from his reed.
When in anger the messenger comes and repairs towards me,
he says, “Whither are you fleeing? I have business with you.”
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
There is a candle in the heart of man, waiting to be kindled.
In separation from the Friend, there is a cut waiting to be
Weary not of us, for we are very beautiful; it is out of very jealousy and proper pride that we entered the veil.
On the day when we cast of the body’s veil from the soul, you will see that we are the envy of despair of man and the Polestars.
Wash your face and become clean for beholding us, else remain afar, for we are beloveds of ourselves.
We are not that beauty who tomorrow will become a crone; till eternity we are young and heart-comforting and fair of stature.
When I am asleep and crumbling in the tomb, should you come
to visit me, I will come forth with speed.
You are for me the blast of the trumpet and the resurrection,
so what shall I do? Dead or living, wherever you are, there am I.
I am part of the load
Not rightly balanced
I drop off in the grass,
like the old Cave-sleepers, to browse
In the end, the mountains of imagination were nothing
but a house.
And this grand life of mine was nothing but an excuse.