The heron came next in all haste, and thus spoke to the birds concerning his position: “My charming abode is beside the sea, where no one hears my song. I am so harmless that no one in the world complains of me. I sit, troubled, upon the seashore, sad and melancholy. I make my heart bleed with longing for water; what can become of me if it fails me? But, since I am not one of the inhabitants of the sea, I die, my lips parched, upon its shore. Though the Ocean is greatly agitated, and its waves come up to me, I cannot swallow a single drop. If the Ocean were to lose but one drop of water, my heart would burn with vexation. For a creature such as I, the love of the Ocean is enough; this passion suffices for my mind. At present, I am troubled by nothing but the Ocean; I have not the strength to go and seek the Simurgh; I beg for mercy. Can he who seeks nothing but a drop of water be united with the Simurgh?”
“To Thee who knowest not the Ocean!” replied the hoopoe, “know that it is full of crocodiles and dangerous creatures; at one time its water is bitter, at another brackish, now calm, now agitated. It is a thing changeable and unstable; sometimes in flood, sometimes in ebb. Many great personages have prepared a little ship to go upon this Ocean, and have fallen into the abyss, where they perished. The diver who enters it finds naught but affliction for his soul; and if anyone touches the bottom of the Ocean for a moment, he soon reappears dead upon its surface, like grass. From such an element, which is devoid of faithfulness, no one should hope for affection. If thou dost not withdraw altogether from the Ocean, it will at last overwhelm Thee.
“It stirs itself for love of its friend; now it rolls its waves, now it makes a sound. Since it cannot find for itself what it desires, neither shalt Thou find therein the repose of thy heart. The Ocean is but a little stream whose source lies on the path that leads to the friend; how then couldst thou be content with it, and deprive thyself of seeing his face?”
“It stirs itself for love of its friend; now it rolls its waves, now it makes a sound. Since it cannot find for itself what it desires, neither shalt Thou find therein the repose of thy heart. The Ocean is but a little stream whose source lies on the path that leads to the friend; how then couldst thou be content with it, and deprive thyself of seeing his face?”