A Tale from Sanaa

In Sanaa a child of mine died. What can I say of what passed over my heart? Fate has never shaped a face as lovely as Joseph's without the fish of the grave swallowing it, as with Jonah. No cypress ever rose tall in this garden without the wind of death tearing it up by the roots. A sapling takes thirty years to become a tree, and a single hard gust rips it from the ground. It is no wonder a flower blooms from the soil, for so many blossom-bodied ones have slept beneath it. I said to my heart: die, you disgrace to men, for the child leaves the world pure while the old man leaves it stained. In my grief and turmoil for him, I lifted a stone from his grave. From dread, in that dark and narrow place, my state was shaken and my color drained. When I came back to my senses from that shock, a voice from my beloved child reached my ears: If the dark place frightened you, then keep your wits and step in with a light. If you want the night of your grave to be bright as day, kindle the lamp of good deeds from here, while you live. The worker's body trembles with fever, afraid his palm tree may bear no dates. A great many people wrongly imagine they can reap a harvest they never sowed. Sadi will eat only from the tree whose roots he planted; only the one who scatters seed carries off the harvest.