I am a scorner of the earth; where life is a handful of grains.

My nature, like a hermit’s, loves wild solitude; I have saintly nature.

No breeze for me, no nightingale; no song of love, no song in the air.

I wing away from gardens, embowered with flowers enticing.

In wilderness the winds sharpen my ethereal flight.

I hunger not for birds of prey; mine is an austere life.

To swoop, withdraw and swoop again is only a pretext to keep up the heat of the blood.

O East and west are for petty birds; mine is the world of boundless skies.

I stoop not to make a nest; I am a dervish among the birds.