Is it thinner than mirage, more penetrating than wine.
It is from a sweet-scented flower which is mingled in a vase of complaint.
It is a heavy cloud which rains upon hearts and causes the growth of joy and happiness.
It nurtures the fruit of words, yet knots the elaborate tongue.
It has purity of intellect and a battlefield within the liver.
The trap of love only hunts men with purity in afflictions.
It turns the owner into the owned and the master into the slave, so that he would be mastered by his own slave.
Its victim is always sick with love and afflicted with uneasiness.
He brags with time and possesses an elevated thought.
By nightfall he becomes sleepless and at daybreak he becomes anxious.
Trouble becomes his fasting and complaint his “Iftaar”.
[Excerpts from مروج الذهب ومعادن الجوهر (ancient Arabic text: Meadows of Gold)]
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