Story No. 16

I remember, in the days of my youth, how I once passed through a lane and set my eyes on a beautiful face, in a scorching summer when the heat dried up the mouth and the burning wind seemed to boil the very marrow in the bones. In my human weakness I could not bear the blaze of that noonday sun, so I took refuge in the shade of a wall, hoping someone would come and cool the summer's fire in me with a drink of water. Then suddenly, out of the darkness of a house's entryway, a light shone forth: a beauty so lovely that eloquence itself fails to describe it, as if dawn were breaking in the black of night, or the water of life were welling up from the shadows. In hand was a cup of iced water, sugar dissolved in it and mixed with rosewater. I could not tell whether it was perfumed with rosewater, or whether a few drops from the rose of that face had fallen into it. In short, I took the drink from that lovely hand and drank, and my life began anew: There is a thirst in my heart that no sip of clear water can quench, even if I drank whole seas. How happy is the fortunate one whose eyes fall upon such a face every morning. One drunk on wine wakes at midnight; one drunk on such a cup-bearer wakes only on the morning of resurrection.