For what avails it cycles to have lain
Since first the roses gushed their scented rain
Upon my grave in Naishapur if men
In the world’s winter take my name in vain?
Through piled-up earth and ages echoes reach
My tranquil slumbers of an alien speech,
Blown over seas wherein strange doctors preach
Strange sermons on the things I thought to teach.
For, misinterpreting the songs I sung,
By vain desire and vain ambition stung,