I bow down before myself – there is no temple or Ka’bah left! This one is missing in Arabia, that one in other lands.

The petals of rose and tulip have lost their colour and moisture; the laments of birds have lost their melody.

In the workshop that is the world I see no new designs: Pre-existence has, perhaps, run out of blueprints.

The heavenly bodies no longer want to revolve: Day and night are, perhaps, unable to move.

They have put up their feet before reaching their destination: the earthlings have, perhaps, no breath left in their chests.

Either the Register of Possibles has no blank pages left or the Pen of Fate has grown too tired to write.