Book in this poetic form
This page shows only poems in the Ghazal, Qasida, or Qit‘a form.
The sap in the tree of our life comes from our thirst. To seek the spring of immortality is to be unadventurous.
A true lover does not differentiate between the Ka‘bah and the idol-house. The one is the Beloved’s privacy, the other His appearing publicly.
There is no waking up without You from non-being’s sleep, no being without You, no non-being with You.
This azure sky, all that is high, all that is low, for all its vastness, is encompassed in the lover’s heart.
Lines Addressed To a Sufi: Neither have I nor you the wish to go to Layla’s house. Neither have I nor you the heart to bear the desert heat.
I am a guidepost to the goal of heart’s desire. Adhere to me. Mix with your dust a spark of my pure fire.
In the world of our heart there are no phases of the moon. There is a revolution, but no morning and no evening.
Our wailing is without effect, and fruitless are our cries. The gain from all this ardency: A heart whose songs are steeped in blood.
The fervent quality of verse comes from the heart’s ecstatic cry. This candle is alight thanks to the heart, which is its moth.
The majesty is snatched away from mountains and bestowed on leaves of grass. A royal crown is put on the head of a roadside beggar.
You cannot fit into the Harem, nor into the idol-house. But O how eagerly you come to those who seek you eagerly.
The animation in the idol-temple of ‘Ajam does not match the great ardour of my heart, for with one glance Muhammad of Arabia has conquered the Hijaz that is in me.
Do not be like a mirror, which is taken up with others’ beauty. Cast away the thought of others from your mind.
No lordship and no mastership does the world of Love know. It is enough that it knows how to serve.
There is no master who does not adore Him like a slave. There is no slave who, if he were a master, would not bid for Him.
Come, for the love-mad nightingale is busy singing songs. The tulip-bride is all bewitchery and grace.
We are mere dust, but planet-like we swiftly move, and seek the shore of this blue sea.
O may Arabia become a tulip-field, thanks to my tears of blood. May Ajam, which has lost its fragrance, find a new spring in my breath!
Your seeing is all error, your wisdom all defect. You never will get anywhere except through revelation.
There is no breaker of wine-jars not merrily drunk with your wine. There is no sweet-tongued poet who has not sucked rapture at your ruby-tinted lips.
Although he does not wear a crown or diadem, the beggar in Your street is no less than a king.
My love in its abandon has a live flame in its arms. My sterile wisdom cannot raise a single spark.
O you have carved new images, Alas! You have not dug into your inner self, Alas!
