The denizens of this plane speak no words—but they gallop their chargers.
They see but the inner reality of the Beloved. To them all words of sense
are meaningless, and senseless words are full of meaning. They cannot tell
one limb from another, one part from another. To them the mirage is the
real river; to them going away is returning. Wherefore hath it been said:

The story of Thy beauty reached the hermit’s dell;
Crazed, he sought the Tavern where the wine they buy and sell.
The love of Thee hath leveled down the fort of patience,
The pain of Thee hath firmly barred the gate of hope as well.(110)

In this realm, instruction is assuredly of no avail.

The lover’s teacher is the Loved One’s beauty,
His face their lesson and their only book.
Learning of wonderment, of longing love their duty,
Not on learned chapters and dull themes they look.
The chain that binds them is His musky hair,
The Cyclic Scheme,(111) to them, is but to Him a stair.(112)

Here followeth a supplication to God, the Exalted, the Glorified:

O Lord! O Thou Whose bounty granteth wishes!
I stand before Thee, all save Thee forgetting.
Grant that the mote of knowledge in my spirit
Escape desire and the lowly clay;
Grant that Thine ancient gift, this drop of wisdom,
Merge with Thy mighty sea.(113)