Since midnight sickness has manifested itself in that Master; till daybreak he has been beating his head uncontrollably against our wall.
Heaven and earth weep and lament because of his lamentation; his breaths have become fiery—you might say he is a fire-temple.
He has a strange sickness—no headache, no feverish pain—no remedy is to be found for it on earth, for it came upon him out of heaven.
When Galen beheld him he took his pulse; and he said, “Let go my hand and examine my heart; my pain is beyond the rules.”
He suffers neither from yellow nor black bile, neither colic nor dropsy; a hundred tumults have arisen in every corner of our city because of this untoward happening.
He neither eats nor sleeps; he receives his nourishment from Love, for this Love is now both nurse and mother to the Master.
I said, “O God, grant compassion, that he may find rest for a brief hour; he has spilled no man’s blood, he has seized no man’s property.”
The answer came from heaven, “Let him be as he is, for medicine and remedy are useless in lovers’ suffering.
Seek no cure for this Master; do not bind him, do not counsel him, for where he has fallen is neither transgression nor piety.
When did you ever see Love? You have never heard from lovers; keep silent, chant no spells; this is not a case for magic or jugglery!”
Come, Shams-i Tabr¯ız¯ı, source of light and radiance, for this illustrious spirit without your splendour is frozen and congealed.
