still-life-with-boredom dept.

We are all vain, fickle animals. How cruelly do we so casually spurn the affections of those that love us, and yet squander our lives over merciless infidels? Surely it must amuse the all-merciful, in his omniscience, to watch us weave our tangled webs of self-deception and deceit. Perhaps, 'Al-Nawaz', in one of his sombre moods, lamenting his lost love, caught a glimpse of the infinite, and trying desperately with his (at the time) limited vocabulary to distill the essence of his experience, wrote down this:

In the courtyard, the flowers bloom, the Indian rose, dispels all gloom
The insects swarm, and plunder it all; and beauty thus, begets its doom

There was a house, in the lane, where I lament my lover's reign
She gave me joy, and infinite pain; sweet pain, alas, taken too soon

All around, the call resounds, the faithfull crouch and bow their heads
For some the crowd is divine; to some, beckons the solitude of their rooms

The priest offers heavenly bliss, yet frowns upon the brimming glass
Peace, sheikh, for we are the anointed ones, who sorrow's dregs consume

Love was not all unkind, 'Nawaz', she offered her right, reassuring hand
Cursed was I, I yearned for all; vain desire led me to my doom