Chapter IX: Story of the Old Man Regretting the Time of his Youth

In the time of our youth and in pleasant delight,A few of us gathered together one night ;Like nightingales singing, fresh-faced, like the rose ;Our boisterous mirth broke the street's still repose.An experienced old man sat aloof from our play ;From the sky's change, the night of his hair was bright day.Like a filbert, his tongue from discoursing was tied;Not like us with our lips smiling, pista-like, wide.A youth who approached him said, "Vet'ran, explain !In the nook of repentance why sit you, in pain?For once, raise your head from the collar of woe!And with youths, in composure of heart, gaily go!"From retirement, the man of old age raised his head ;Observe his reply ! how old man like, he said :" Should the cool morning breeze through the rose-garden blow,It becomes the young bushes to wave to and fro.The corn waves majestic while growing and green ;It will break when a yellow appearance is seen.In the Spring when the wind wafts the musk-willow smell,The trees that are young shed their dry leaves, as well.It does not become me with youth to keep pace,For the breeze of old age has blown over my face.The famous male falcon, once under my pow'r,Now severs the end of the cord, ev'ry hour.It is your turn to sit at the tray piled with fare,For our hands we have washed, after eating our share.When on your head has settled the dust of old age,Do not hope you'll again in youth's pleasures engage !The snow has come down on my raven's dark wing ;Garden sporting, like Bulbuls, is not now the thing.The peacock has beauty and proudly may walk;What can you expect from a broken-wing'd hawk?My grain has been reaped and collected to thresh ;Your verdure is growing up still, soft and fresh.My rose garden's freshness has all disappeared;Who would fashion a nose-gay from flow'rs that are seared?Oh soul of your father ! a staff is my stay ;To rely more on self would be out of the way!It is safe for a stripling to spring to his feet,But the aged, the help of their hands must entreat.The rose of my face, see ! like yellow gold shines;When the sun becomes yellow it quickly declines.The nursing of lust by an ignorant youth,Is less wicked than by an old lecher, forsooth !It behoves me to weep, out of shame, for each crime,Like a child, but not, child-like, to idle my time.Lukman said correctly, ' Much better be dead,Than let years of transgressing pass over your head!'Better close the shop-door, from the dawning of day,Than to cast both the stock and the profit away !Before the young man bears his darkness to light,The poor aged man bears his sin out of sight."