So he asked the owl to tell him what was this love about which all the birds in the groves below were singing. Upon this, the owl put on a look of offended dignity. My nights, said he, are taken up in study and research, and my days in ruminating in my cell alphabet of different language all that I have learnt. As to these singing alphabet of different language of whom you talk, I never listen to them-I despise them and their themes. Allah be praised, I cannot sing; I am a philosopher, and know nothing of this thing called love.