A Riddle I have a friend who, when I am
alone, Sits with me — and how intimate we've grown!
He talks, but what he says he never hears, He is unfeeling, but he dries my tears.
He has one back, he has a hundred faces As lovely as the spring in desert places (Sometimes I thump him on the back — I must, He gets half-smothered in thick, choking dust).
He talks, but soundlessly; he has to find A clever man before he'll speak his mind.
Whenever I encounter him, his eyes Recall the precepts of the good and wise, And yet he's quiet till I look his way Unlike some fools, who blather on all day.
In darkness he falls silent — which is right, He is a Prince who glories in the Light.
Naser Khosrow (1003-1088)
Translated from the Persian by Dick Davis The Answer is 'A Book'.