The Houris of the Court

I saw an old friend sitting forlorn beside the arched entrance of the market, tears flowing across his bearded face like a flooded wilderness. His eyes were burning red, and his body bent like crumpled paper. His hair, tinged with white, was wild as though he among the angels had fallen fastest from the realm of the Most High. He made no sound, but his body trembled as he wept inconsolably. Because he was my friend, I was mortified that he would expose his shameful state so publicly. I berated him as follows:

"Why are you weeping at the gate of the bazaar? Do you cherish being an object of scorn and mockery? Consider your enemies; how they must rejoice at this sight. And your friends; how ashamed they are even to know you. Take your tears home or wipe your face and stand up, for I know your cares are not so great. Tears are an adornment on women and children. On a man they are a disgrace. Such sadness is best concealed."

He answered, without a trace of shame in his voice. "My tears are the mingled waters of joy and sorrow. What does he know of dazzling light except that he knows also of midnight's pitch? Let these tears run from my soul's fountain, as blood one day must run from my broken body. Let my passionate heart, divided from itself, be burnt and the smoke of its fire, so soon extinguished, reach the heavens, a perfume on the breasts of the houris of the Court. No other sacrifice I've made has merit, but the prayers of burning hearts are heard."

When he said this, I saw that his state was more exalted than mine.