Drunk on the Color of God

The season of the nightingales' rapture has come; it's as if the rose has arrived in the garden. Nightingale, be silent here, and stay present; listen to this secret that has just been shared. The gathering of those drunk on the love of God: you cannot swagger in there merely lighthearted. You love color and fragrance, nightingale; that is why your place is at the foot of the rose. But we, who are drunk on the very color of God, our home is the garden beyond all place. Your eye is fixed on the world's rose, while my gaze rests on the Maker of the world. Go, you belong to a marketplace and its bargaining; a shop is the place for the merchants. Wait, nightingale, let me lament, for all creation has broken into crying. Don't sing in front of me, for your wailing is only a cry that rises to the tip of the tongue. Hear my lament, for at the Beloved's door it rises, burning, from the very heart of the soul. Lovers cannot be contained in this world; how could this cage ever be a home for you? Your love for the rose lasts only a few days; our love is a love that lasts forever. Weeping over this house of water and clay, this is the way of the delicate and fickle. Mohyi saw the traces of God's power, as spring arrived and autumn arrived.