I lamented it in every gathering
I associated wih those in bad or happy circumstances
(But) every one became my friend from his (own) opinion
He did not seek my secrets from within me
My secret is not far from my lament
But eyes and ears do not have the light (to sense it)
Is this what they are calling poetry these days? What is this?
Are you from the 13th century?
I'll try and find a better translation.
He hath not lived here, who hath sober lived,
And he that dieth not drunk hath missed the mark.
With tears then let him mourn himself, whose life
Hath passed, and he no share of it hath had.
>>7686641
It's not what they call poetry these days, it's what they call poetry in Persia 800 years ago. This would be "The Song of the Reed" by Rumi, couplets 5-7. (I think).
