Another bird said to the hoopoe: “O eminent bird! The love of a charming object has made me a slave; this affection has taken possession of me, deprived me of reason, and completely subdued me. The image of that beloved face is like a highway robber; it has set fire to the harvest of my life. Far from this idol, I have not a moment’s peace. I should deem myself faithless if I resolved to live without her. How could I, wretched as I am, whose heart is aflame with passion, set out on the way? First one must cross a valley where a hundred trials must be endured. How could I deprive myself, even for a time, of seeing the cheek of that moonlike face, in order to seek the road Thou pointest out to me? My sorrow cannot be soothed by the hand of remedy. My love is beyond faith and infidelity. My piety or impiety depends upon my love; the fire in my heart springs from love for her. For want of a confidant in my love, I have my grief, and that suffices me. This love has cast me into dust and blood; the locks of hair of its object have driven me from my retreat. So weak am I where she is concerned that I cannot remain a moment without her. I am the dust of her path, and, stained with blood, what can I do? Such is the state of my heart at this moment; what, then, can I do?”
“O thou who hast remained attached to what is visible!” replied the hoopoe, “and who hast remained, from head to foot, in the disquiet that is its sign, know that love of outward things is other than contemplative love of the invisible Creator. Carnal love is a game that makes thee like unto animals. The love inspired by a fleeting beauty can only be fleeting. Thou givest the name of an undiminishing moon to an outward body composed of humours and blood. There is a beauty that does not diminish, and it is impiety not to know it. Is there anything in the world uglier than a body composed of nothing but humours and blood? Canst thou, in good faith, esteem an object whose beauty is nothing but humours and blood? Thou hast long wandered beside outward form, seeking imperfection. True beauty is hidden; seek it, then, in the invisible world. If the veil that conceals these mysteries from our eyes were to fall, neither inhabitant nor dwelling would remain in the world: for all visible forms would be annihilated, and all that appears excellent would be debased. This love of outward things, to which thou givest thyself in thy narrow outlook, makes some the enemies of others. But love of invisible things is love without stain. If this pure love does not occupy thy mind, repentance will soon seize thee.”