قالوا ألا تستجد بيتا — أبو إسحاق الإلبيري

They said, “Will you not build yourself a new house

whose beauty would astonish all other houses?”

I said, “That is no sound judgment:

even a hovel is too much for one who must die.

Were it not for winter and the scorching blast of summer,

fear of thieves, the need to store provisions,

and women seeking shelter,

I would build no more than a spider’s house.

What meaning is there in a dwelling’s beauty

when its owners cannot remain?

How eloquent an admonisher the grave would be, if only we heeded

the sermon of that silent speaker!

It whispers to the one reclining upon soft cushions:

“What ails you—are you blind to my bed?

You have forgotten my day and the length of my sleep,

but you will be forgotten, just as you forgot.

You have raised palaces, O you who will break me open,

and lived luxuriously in them however you pleased,

embracing beautiful women there

and breathing in their powdered musk,

trailing the train of youth and making merry

with charming women who say, ‘Come!’

Remember my resting place until the Great Summons,

and prepare for it before the chance is lost.

For soon you will become my food,

whether you resent it, my friend, or accept it.”