Our wailing is without effect, and fruitless are our cries. The gain from all this ardency: A heart whose songs are steeped in blood.

In fervent quest of Him the heart created temple and Harem. We long for Him: He watches us with unconcern.

The veiled ones have unveiled themselves, while I have gone into my self’s retreat. Look at my self-respecting love. Who is fond of display – say, they or I?

The singer at the tavern made a subtle point last night. He said: ‘The tasting of wine is a sin; the drinking of it none.’

Wayfarers’ life consists in hurrying from place to place. The caravan of waves has no road and no goal.

‘Our goal is God.’ This saying of the guide of Rum was like a flame flung at the straw that is my self.