Book in this poetic form
This page shows only poems in the Ghazal, Qasida, or Qit‘a form.
When spring made of the garden a veritable concert hall, the nightingale’s impassioned songs made buds open their eyes.
Around my grave atood in a ring a bevy of fair mourners, all comely, winsome, lily-white.
Our thought is constantly engaged in fashioning new gods. Released from one bond, it entangles itself in another.
I have this odd complaint against my seeing eyes: When You unveil Yourself, my sight acts as a veil.
This is my way of finding in this company a confidant: I sing ghazals and through them I convey the message of my Friend.
Arise and waken notes aslumber in the organ’s keys. Teach singing birds fresh tunes.
Let me tell a secret to the servants of the king: You can make the whole world yours with a moving song.
Come, for a saki with a rose-like face is playing on a lute. The air of spring has made the garden look as if it were a painting from Arzhang.
I never worshipped forms; I broke the idol house. I am a rushing flood, which bursts all bounds.
The breeze of spring makes of the garden a wine-tavern. It casts buds into jar-shapes, and makes of flowers cups.
Convey my salutation to that fire-eating Turk who set aflame with one glance a city full of longing.
You have made every thorn prick us and know our tale. You took us to the wilderness of madness, and let everybody know.
Happy the man who burned with flames of wine his intellectual goods. He gained a new thing from the flames, rich like the tulip’s fiery hue.
Fetch wine, for the heavens have turned in our favour. Songs are germinating like buds from the branches.
I long for manly weapons – bow, dagger, spear and sword. O, do not come with me, for mine is Shabbir’s way.
Learn how to put a rosary bead on the sacred thread, and if your eyes see double, then learn how not to see.
From your own dust elicit the fire that is not yet aflame. It is not worthwhile borrowing the radiance of others.
A wave can well be severed from the bosom of the sea, and you can well enclose the boundless sea within the channel of your private stream.
A hundred nights of wailing, a hundred mornings of travail, a hundred fire-emitting sighs: The product? One poignant verse.
Let surma brighten once again your magic-working eyes, and let my frenzied urge to sing about them be intensified.
The intellect’s deceitfulness is worthy of remark: It is the leader of the caravan, yet fond of highway robbery.
O I long for a sight of that full moon. So I stand hand on heart, eyes fixed on a house-top.
