From Thee first came this ebb and flow from within me;
else, O Glorious One, my sea was still
Now, from the same source whence Thou broughtest this
trouble on me, graciously send me comfort!
O Thou Whose affliction makes men weak as women, show
me the one path, do not let me follow ten!
I am like a jaded camel the saddle of free-will has sorely
bruised my back
With its heavy panniers sagging from this side to that
in turn
Let the ill-balanced load drop from me, so that I may
browse in the Meadow of Thy Bounty.
Hundreds of thousands of years I was flying to and fro
involuntarily, like a mote in the air.
If I have forgotten that time and state, yet the migration
in sleep recalls it to my memory
At night I escape from this four-branched cross into the
spacious pastures of the spirit.*
From the nurse, Sleep, I suck the milk of those bygone
days of mine, O Lord
All mortals are fleeing from their free-will and self-existence
to their unconscious selves.
They lay upon themselves the opprobrium of wine and
minstrelsy in order that for awhile they may be delivered
from self-consciousness.
All know that this existence is a snare, that will and thought
and memory are a hell.
-- Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī
