Book in this metre
This page shows only poems in the metre مفاعلن فعلاتن مفاعلن فعلن (مجتث مثمن مخبون محذوف).
When spring made of the garden a veritable concert hall, the nightingale’s impassioned songs made buds open their eyes.
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.
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.
From your own dust elicit the fire that is not yet aflame. It is not worthwhile borrowing the radiance of others.
The intellect’s deceitfulness is worthy of remark: It is the leader of the caravan, yet fond of highway robbery.
The sap in the tree of our life comes from our thirst. To seek the spring of immortality is to be unadventurous.
I am a guidepost to the goal of heart’s desire. Adhere to me. Mix with your dust a spark of my pure fire.
No lordship and no mastership does the world of Love know. It is enough that it knows how to serve.
Come, for the love-mad nightingale is busy singing songs. The tulip-bride is all bewitchery and grace.
Although he does not wear a crown or diadem, the beggar in Your street is no less than a king.
O you have carved new images, Alas! You have not dug into your inner self, Alas!
