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 And what should pious Khayyám have to do

With all your screaming sects seventy and two?

Sin, Faith, and Islam—these are only words,

And my desire, Beloved Friend, is You.

You to the mosque, with howling hymn and prayer,

I to the temple of the vine, repair,

The one true God in divers ways to seek;

I find him here—but do you find him there?

Allah, that numbers all my whitening hairs,

Knows, without telling, all my little cares;

Grateful is Allah, he will not forget

I have not wearied Him with endless prayers.

If the abodes of bliss be seven or eight,

What shall it profit my forlorn estate?

Reach me but wine to numb me where I lie

Heart-broken, stretched upon the wheel of Fate.