Number 14

The spring wind blows in from the meadow, and once again the cry of every longing bird rises to the heavens. The cypress stands tall, the garden is arranged, and the cuckoo sings out over the willow and the plane tree. A flower blooms in the garden; is it the moon, or the sun? The cypress sways in a dance along the streambank. The branch heavy with fruit gets pelted with stones, while the willow, bearing nothing, is spared such cruel abuse. Look at the way of the narcissus, sit beside the violet, choose the graceful lily, and let the yellow poppy rain down its petals. Rise and treasure it all: the stirring of the spring breeze, the bird's measured song, the sweet scent of the tulip field. Every flower and leaf that exists remembers God. What does the nightingale, what does the turtledove sing? The praise of the Lord. For the mind that understands, each green leaf on the trees is a page, and every page a book of knowing the Creator. It is springtime, so rise, let us go and take in the sight; there is no relying on time to bring the spring back again. Nightingale, sing your tunes; sweet-voiced bird, take up your song; sugar-scattering parrot, bring your sweets to the gathering. Along the mountains and the plains, this is a day for wandering and roaming; the spring season has passed, so recite the words of Saadi.