،لن يـرجـع المـقدار فيما حكـم وحـملك الهـم يزيد الألم ،ولو حزنـت العـمر لن ينمـحى ما خـطه فى اللوح مرُّ القلـم - Omar Khayyám

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and They change and perish all — but He remains;

What shall I do, today? Visit the pub?
Sit down in a garden with a book? A bird
flies past. Where is it headed? It's out of
sight already. The drunkenness of a bird in the
burning azure. The melancholy of a man
in the cool shadow of a mosque.

Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!