Every day is festival and Friday for the poor; has not yesterday’s Friday become an ancient festival?
O soul, robed in festive garb like the festival moon, made of the light of the beauty of yourself, not of woolen frock;
Like reason and faith sweet outside and inside, not garlic stuffed in the heart of a walnut-sweet.
Put on such a frock and go about in this ring, like the heart clear and bright in the vestibule of the heart.
On a running river, O soul, how shall a straw stand still? How can rancor make its dwelling in the soul and spirit?
In the eye of sanctity these words are a branch new and fresh; in the eye of sensual perception, they are like an ancient legend.
