The Scorpion Sting Within

On the surface I show patience, thin as a spider's web, but inside me a grief sharp as a scorpion's sting. Whoever sleeps with eyes shut has no idea what the man endures who lies sleepless through the blackest nights. Even if others sheathe the sword of their glances in sleep, don't their eyes still leave a lasting wound in my heart? I admit that patience is the most faithful companion; yet in the narrow straits of love it is the most treacherous friend. A man blind to love blames me for loving them, but I am deaf to whatever my critic says. In my longing, the distance between us feels as close as the space between my eyelid and my brow. My friends, in love there is no safe refuge to enter, no prize for the schemer, no escape for the runaway. The one whose heart has been seized has no right to complain, even if the plundered one dies in the hand of the plunderer. I felt joy while the song still lingered on the singer's lips; I grew drunk before the wine had even left the pourer's hand. An arrow struck me and I never saw who shot it; a sword slays me and I never see the one who strikes. You see people drunk in their drinking parties, yet here I am, drunk, without having drunk a thing. My friends, do not grieve if I die of longing, for a young man's death in love is the highest of ranks. I swear, even if you spoke to me dead and I consented, the words of the one addressing me would raise me alive again. Sa'di has come to hate the friend who blames him for loving you, hating him like an enemy at war. If they reproach me, let them wade in and play their games; your love keeps me too busy to heed any scolding critic.