Tale One

I was in a discussion with a group of scholars in the Great Mosque of Damascus when a young man came in and asked: Is there anyone here who knows Persian? Most of them pointed to me. I said to him: Is everything all right? He said: An old man, a hundred and fifty years old, is on his deathbed, and he keeps saying something in Persian that we cannot understand. If you would be kind enough to trouble yourself, you will earn a reward; perhaps he is making his last will. When I approached his bedside, this is what he was saying: I told myself I would draw a few more breaths of pleasure, but alas, the path of breath itself has closed. Alas, at the lavish table of life we had barely tasted a mouthful when they said: Enough. I explained the meaning of these words in Arabic to the Syrians, and they marveled at his long life, and at how he still grieved for this worldly existence. I said: How are you feeling in this state? He said: What can I say? Have you not seen how much pain a man suffers when they pull a single tooth from his mouth? Then imagine what state he is in at the moment when his very soul is being torn from his precious body. I said: Put the thought of death out of your mind, and do not let fear take command of your nature, for the Greek philosophers have said that even a sound constitution is no guarantee of survival, and even a terrifying illness does not always mean death. If you wish, I will call a physician to treat you. He opened his eyes, laughed, and said: The skilled physician throws up his hands in defeat when he sees his patient stricken senseless. The master busies himself with the mansion's decorations while the house is collapsing at its foundations. An old man was groaning in the throes of death while an old woman rubbed sandalwood balm on him. Once the body's balance has fallen into ruin, neither resolve nor remedy can do any good.