The Beginning

Blessed is the state of those maddened by the grief of love, whether they receive a wound or its healing balm. They are beggars who turn their backs on kingship, patient in their begging, holding only to the hope of Him. Cup after cup, they drink the wine of pain, and even when it tastes bitter, they swallow it in silence. The hangover of longing hides in the pleasure of wine; the thorn stands guard beside the king of flowers, the rose. The patience endured in remembering Him is not bitter, for even bitterness is sweet when it comes from the beloved's hand. The drunk lovers of the friend bear reproach lightly; a drunken camel carries its load more easily. His captive wants no release from the chains, His prey seeks no escape from the snare. Kings of solitude, beggars of the Living One, they know every waystation, yet have lost their own path. How can ordinary people find their way to them, when, like the water of life, they dwell hidden in darkness? Like Jerusalem, full of domes within, while the outer walls are left in ruin. Like a moth, they set themselves on fire; not like a silkworm, wrapping itself in its own thread. Holding their heart's ease close, still they search for it; lips parched with thirst though they stand at the water's edge. I do not say they cannot reach the water; they stand on the banks of the Nile, dying of thirst.