Oh, my shelter! take good thought,
The passions war with the soul.
Do not waste the gold in thy hand,
Lest scoffers have cause to mock thee.
Oh, my Nakhôdah! when the mattress is spread, who will lie on it?
Who shall be covered by the folded coverlet?
Who will sit upon the embroidered mat,
Or lean against the great round pillow?
Oh, my Nakhôdah! the feast is waiting, but who will eat it?
The water is cool, but who will drink it?