An Old Man’s Lament

One night, in the season of youth, several of us young men sat together; we sang like bulbuls and raised a tumult in the street by our mirth.

An old man sat silent, apart; like a filbert-nut, his tongue was closed from speech. A youth approached him and said: “O old man! why sittest thou so mournfully in this corner? Come, raise thy head from the collar of grief and join us in our festivity.”

Thus did the old man reply: “When the morning breeze blows over the rose-garden, the young trees proudly wave their branches. It becomes not me to mingle in thy company, for the dawn of old age has spread over my cheeks. Thy turn it is to sit at this table of youth; I have washed my hands of youthful pleasures. Time has showered snow upon my crow-like wings; like the bulbul, I could not sport in the garden. Soon will the harvest of my life be reaped; for thee, the new green leaves are bursting. The bloom has faded from my garden; who makes a nosegay from withered flowers? I must weep, like a child, in shame for my sins, but cannot emulate his pleasures.”

Well has Luqman said: “It is better not to live at all than to live many years in sinfulness.” Better, too, may it be to close the shop in the morning than to sell the stock at a loss.