You who possess not Love, it is lawful to you—sleep on; be gone, for Love and Love’s sorrow is our portion—sleep on.
We have become motes of the sun of sorrow for the Beloved; you in whose heart this passion has never arisen, sleep on.
In endless quest of union with Him we hurry like a river; you who are not anguished by the question “Where is He?”—sleep on.
Love’s path is outside the two and seventy sects; since your love and way is mere trickery and hypocrisy, sleep on.
His dawn-cup is our sunrise, his crepuscule our supper; you whose yearning is for viands and whose passion is for supper, sleep on.
In quest of the philosopher’s stone we are melting like copper; you whose philosopher’s stone is the bolster and the bedfellow, sleep on.
Like a drunkard you are falling and rising on every side, for night is past and now is the time for prayer; sleep on.
Since fate has barred slumber to me, young man, be gone; for sleep has passed you by and you can now fulfil slumber; sleep on.
We have fallen into Love’s hand—what will Love do? Since you are in your own hand, depart to the right hand—sleep on.
I am the one who drinks blood; my soul, you are the one who eats viands; since viands for a certainty demand slumber, sleep on.
I have abandoned hope for my brain and my head too; you aspire to a fresh and juicy brain—sleep on.
I have rent the garment of speech and let words go; you, who are not naked, possess a robe—sleep on.
