To lay sleepily in bed, languishing contentedly,
Head on a pillow in a ray of sweet sun,
Half-dreaming and putting off living,
Seems so inviting.
But the cold, harsh day awaits,
With driving, sleeting rains and an exhausting journey
To some unknown end.
These dreams will be torn
As the roses beside the path nourish themselves,
Feeding from thorn-spilt blood.
In time the wet, wretched night clouds the senses,
And to every Layla is her Majnun.
Yet this and this alone gives me stories.
I willingly arise and set out,
Escaping the slumber of comfort’s mausoleum.
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