I have no need of wine, I am indifferent to lees and pure liquor; I thirst for my own blood, the time of battle has come.
Draw the sharp sword, shed the blood of the envious until the head without the body circumambulates about its own body.
Make a mountain of skulls, make a sea of our blood, that earth and sand may drink blood in great gulps.
You who are aware of my heart, go, do not stop up my mouth, else my heart will split, the blood will leap out of the rent.
Do not listen to the tumult, show no special favour; rulership and authority are not so hand-woven.
I will enter the heart of the fire, I will become a morsel for the fire; foretelling what, have they cut the navel of the sulphurlike soul?
Fire is our child, it thirsts and is in bondage to us; we two are becoming one so that no difference may prevail.
Why does it crackle and smoke? Because two-colouredness is still there; when it becomes fuel, it no longer crackles boastfully.
Or if it leaps half-ablaze, it now becomes a coal, heart-athirst and black-faced, seeking union and marriage.
The fire says, “Go, you are black and I am white.” The fuel says, “You are burnt, I am preserved.”
This side of it no face, that side of it no face, making seclusion in blackness between the two friends;
Like an exiled Moslem, no way for him to come to people nor to emperor, left on one side like the fringe of a garment.
Rather, he is like the ‘Anq¯a which was greater than all the birds, but having no way to the sky, remained upon that mountain of Q¯af.
What am I to say to you? For you are fixed in your grief for bread, your back curved like a l¯am, your heart constricted like a k¯af.
Ho, trouble-seeker, dash that pitcher against a rock, that I may not draw river-water, that I may not suck it up.
I will abandon water-carrying, I will drown myself in the sea, far from warfare and conflict, unaware of any description,
Like pure spirits under the earth, their bodies like a bride with earth on them for a coverlet.
