Once again the drunkards’ head from drunkenness has come into prostration; has perchance that minstrel of the souls struck up music from the veil?
The reckless gamblers of head and soul once more are rioting; being has departed into annihilation, and annihilation has come into being.
Once more the world is full of the sound of Seraphiel’s trumpet; the trustee of the unseen has become visible, for goods and chattels have come to the soul.
See how the earthy particles have received fresh life; all their earthiness has turned to purity, all their loss become gain.
That world is without colour; yet out of the crucible of the sight, like light, this red and blue have issued from the colourmixing soul.
The body’s portion of this is colour, the soul’s portion is delight; for the cauldron’s portion from the kitchen fire is smoke.
Consume, O heart, for so long as you are raw, the scent of the Heart will not come from you; when did you ever know anyone to produce the scent of incense without fire?
The scent is always with the incense, it never departed or returned thither; one man says, “It came late,” another says, “It came early.”
The Emperor has not fled from the ranks, only the helmet and armour are a veil; the veil over his moonlike face is a helmet against the blows of mortals.
