In the fury of the flood, so much of what we have gathered lies imperilled;
The cradle of our cherished relationships
Drifts away, smiling into oblivion.
Sorrow celebrates in the courtyards of the sorrowful,
While happiness, an ancient slave, dwells in the quarter of the contented;
The sheaves of sunlight, bathed in suffering,
Lie abandoned at the bend of twilight.
A weary bird seeks its nest in the fading light;
The nights drape the world in a shawl of consolation.
Some remain awake, murmuring their tasbih,
Wondering when the elusive dawn will descend.
