Number 13

The heavens don't strive in vain to destroy me; even the sun gathers dust from my pure clay. Sword of my beloved, the lover's longing writhes in blood: your hem is clutched by the hand of my dying hope. I sit here waiting for the uproar of resurrection; at least, as a test, pass once over my dust. The spring of my nature never knew an autumn; it was sheer drunkenness that laid the vine's leaves down. Beside the sobbing of my weeping sits, as its equal, the laughter rising from my torn and shredded heart. I've pinned the age's heartlessness upon myself, and still my laughing breath weeps tears of blood. As long as I've lived I've been a reckless rogue, ready to risk all; like Fayyaz, I have feared no one.