And the night waxed deep, and Almustafa was dark with the night, and his spirit was as a cloud unspent. And he cried again:
“Heavy-laden is my soul with her own ripe fruit;
Heavy-laden is my soul with her fruit.
Who now will come and eat and be fulfilled?
My soul is overflowing with her wine.
Who now will pour and drink and be cooled of the desert heat?
“Would that I were a tree flowerless and fruitless,
For the pain of abundance is more bitter than barrenness,
And the sorrow of the rich from whom no one will take
Is greater than the grief of the beggar to whom none would give.
“Would that I were a well, dry and parched, and men throwing stones into me;
For this were better and easier to be borne than to be a source of living water
When men pass by and will not drink.
“Would that I were a reed trodden under foot,
For that were better than to be a lyre of silvery strings
In a house whose lord has no fingers
And whose children are deaf.”