The neighbours wish me dead; their wrath on me distils.
Amongst us Arabs pride is felt in war and gifts,
Among those very Arabs thou’rt devoid of shifts.
What need of war have we? We’re wounded; we are slain;
The dart of want has pierced us through and through with pain.10
What need of faults, O sinless one? We’re in hell-fire!
What solace have we? Overwhelmed with deep desire!
What gifts have we to give? We silent beggars sit!
Could we but seize a gnat, its throat we’d straightway slit!
If guest should come to us, as sure as I’m alive,