Number 5

Love has come and set fire to all of us, the good and the bad alike. O masters of blame, lend me the shelter of your robe. We are the fresh rosebush of love, and nothing fills our basket but the nightingale's lament for the rose of our face. We are the ones whose reason is undone, for every day madness comes to circle our wits like a pilgrim. We are that lucky star, and nothing is worthy to watch us but the highest pinnacle of heaven's throne. Where annihilation sells its rank for a price, our humble felt mat lies above the nine silken skies. We are that proud, intoxicated one whose every moment lands a slap of refusal across the cheek of the heavens. We are that lover of pain who, on the field of fate, envies nothing but a wounded heart. In the eight green gardens of paradise there is not one cypress as graceful as the box tree of our stature. Though in cruelty a hundred of him is not equal to one, in love and faithfulness one of us is worth a hundred. At the table of love's sorrow for you we are honored guests, and every moment a fresh grief is betrothed to us. The giver of sorrow does not come from straying in the desert of madness; on this road the print of our own steps is our guide.