time

Water that has flowed away never returns to the stream.

Though the rose is possessed of great beauty, its beauty fades within a week.

Place no trust at all in the world's constancy — this is a workshop where everything is remade.

Treasure this night of companionship, for after our time the sky will turn through many more days and nights.

Today you have no claim on tomorrow — worrying about tomorrow is nothing but madness.

Do not waste this moment, if your heart is not mad with love — for the rest of life has no fixed price.

Seize this one moment of your time — you are not the herb that, once cut, will grow again.

Before they raid you by surprise in the night, call for them to bring the rose-red wine.

You are no buried gold, O heedless fool, that once placed in the earth, you would be dug out again.

The heavens raise no flower from the earth that they do not break and return again to the earth.

My true friends, one by one, have all been lost — laid low, one after another, at the feet of death.

It is the hour of dawn — rise, fair one, and fill the crystal cup with ruby wine.

This one borrowed moment, in this corner of oblivion — search as long as you like, you will not find it again.

Before the wind of death suddenly comes, and the garment of our life becomes like the garment of a rose.

Many a renowned one lies buried beneath the earth, leaving no trace of their existence upon it.

The blessed name of Nushirvan still lives on in goodness, though long since he himself has passed away.

Do good, my friend, and treasure your life, before the cry goes up that you are no more.

With every moment a breath of life departs; when I look closely, little of it remains.

You whose fifty years have passed while still asleep — will you at least seize these last five days?

Ashamed is the one who departed without preparing — the drum of departure sounded, and they had packed nothing.

Everyone who came built a new dwelling, then departed, leaving the house to another.

Life is snow under the summer sun — little remains, yet the master still boasts in pride.

Look at this swift-turning dome of the sky — both cure and pain come from it.

It never rests from its motion, and unlike us, it never accepts ruin.

You are careless of youth's worth — until you grow old, you will not know what it was.

Year after year, we long for the year before — nostalgia for what has passed.

Even if you strive for perfection, it too will pass; the whole world, from end to end, is nothing but illusion.

As it has ever been, so the world remains; who is ever safe from the accidents of time?

Those who came before and desired the world have all, in the end, seen it as behind them.

The world is neither our station nor our resting place; the wise are better off lost and intoxicated within it. Douse the fire of grief with wine, before you go to dust with nothing in hand.

The tailor of pride cuts the silk of your life into pieces with the scissors of the months.