The Eagle

I have turned away from that place on earth Where sustenance takes the form of grain and water.

The solitude of the wilderness pleases me— By nature I was always a hermit

No spring breeze, no one plucking roses, no nightingale, And no sickness of the songs of love!

One must shun the garden-dwellers— They have such seductive charms!

The wind of the desert is what gives The stroke of the brave youth fighting in battle its effect.

I am not hungry for pigeon or dove— For renunciation is the mark of an eagle’s life.

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

East and West these belong to the world of the pheasant, The blue sky—vast, boundless—is mine!

I am the dervish of the kingdom of birds— The eagle does not make nests.