Number 7

Our planning is mortgaged to our aging reason; who knows how far the arrow of our strength will fly. Logic opens no door to truth through knowledge; the pen of our scribe marks down only errors. In the kingdom of the heart the demons' tyranny has gone too far; our minister, our reason, governs us badly. Since the heart's hand has clutched the tresses of the beautiful, that same grip will be what saves us on the Day of Reckoning. Fayyaz, don't grieve, for moment by moment it reaches the ear: the glad tidings from the ruby lips of our herald.