Book in this metre
This page shows only poems in the metre مفاعلن فعلاتن مفاعلن فعلن (مجتث مثمن مخبون محذوف).
The rectitude of work, where? and, I ruined where? Behold the distance of the Path, from where to where?
O breeze! with softness speak to the beautiful fawn, Saying: Thou hast given to us desire for the mountain and the desert.
The great curve that, into the bow, thy told eye-brow cast, In design of the blood of me, miserable, powerless, it cast.
O Heart-ravisher! thou art not a speech-recognizer. Here, the fault is: When thou hearest the speech of people of heart speak not saying: “A fault it is.”
In every path of Islam, the image of Thy face fellow traveler of ours is. Ever, the perfume of Thy hair, the soul-informer of ours is.
Blossomed is the red rose; and intoxicated is the nightingale; The invitation to merriment O Lovers, wine-worshipping!
By the Khwaja’s soul, and by ancient right, and by true covenant, That, at the breath of dawn, prayer for thy welfare is my companion.
When the form of thy heart alluring eye-brow, God established. In thy glances, the solving of my work, He established.
The chamber of vision of my eye is the dwelling of Thine: Show courtesy, and alight, for this house is the House of Thine.
O admonisher! Go about thy own work: what is this tumult? From the hand, my heart hath fallen: what hath befallen thee?
Come! For most unstable is the foundation of the Palace of Hope: Bring the cup; for the foundation of Life is on the wind.
Though wine is joy exciting! and the breeze rose-enslaving, Drink not wine to the sound of the harp. For bold the Muhtaseb is.
Now that in the palm of the rose, is the cup of pure wine, In it praise, is the nightingale with a hundred thousand tongues.
At this time, a friend, who is free from defect, Is the goblet of pure wine, and the song-book.
In the Street of the tavern, every holy traveler, that knew the Path The knocking at another door, the source of ruin knew.
In the snare of Thy tress, my heart entangled of itself is. Slay with a glance; for to it, punishment of itself is.
Such a one am I that the tavern-corner is the cloister of mine: The prayer from the Pir of Moghan is the morning task of mine.
From weeping, the pupil of my eye seated in blood is, Behold the state of men in search of Thee, how it is.
The head of our desire, and the threshold of the Mighty Friend: For, whatever passeth over our head is His will.
O Breeze! If thy path should chance by the Land of the Friend. Bring a fragrant waft of air from the beperfumed tress of the Friend.
Since the presentation of skill before the Beloved disrespect, is The tongue, silent; yet, the mouth full of Arabia is.
O nightingale! bewail if, the desire of being a lover with me, thine is. For, we two are, weeping lovers; and our work, weeping is.
Save Thy threshold, my shelter in the world is none. Save this door, my fortress-place is none.
Now, that the fragrant breeze of Paradise bloweth from the rose garden. I and the wine, joy-giving and the Beloved angel.
I heard a pleasant speech that the old man of Kan’an uttered: “Separation from the true Beloved maketh not that which can be uttered.”
What kindness it was when, suddenly, the dropping of thy pen Represented the obligations of our service according to the goodness of thee.
Wine and hidden pleasure, what are they? Baseless work. On the ranks of profligates we dashed. What is fit to be-be!
In need of the physician’s care, thy body be not; Vexed by injury, thy tender existence be not!
Last night, to the rose, the violet spake; and a sweet trace gave, Saying: “In the world, me, torment a certain one’s tress gave.”
The Homa of the height of felicity to the snare of ours falleth. If, Thy passing to the dwelling of ours falleth.
That one that, in his vision, the beauty of the line of the Beloved hath; Certain it is that the acquisition of vision he hath.
That heart that is the hidden-displayer; and that the cup of Jamshid hath, For a seal ring, that awhile became lost, what grief it hath?
Every one, who regardeth the people of fidelity, Him, in every state, from calamity God preserveth.
If, the heart’s grief from our memory, the cup do not take. The foundation of our work, the anxiety of the vicissitudes will take.
Come; for plunder of the tray of fasting, the Turk of the sky hath made: Hint at the circulation of the cup, the new crescent moon hath made.
With the luminous liquid of wine, an Aref purification made, Early in the morning when, to the wine-house, visit he made.
Like the wind, resolution of the head of the Beloved’s street, I will make: By His pleasant perfume, my own breath, musk-raining, I will make.
At the head of Jamshid’s cup, at that time thy glance, thou canst make, When the dust of the wine-house, the collyrium of thy eye, thou canst make.
I know not what is the intoxication that to us its face hath brought: Who is the cup-bearer? This wine, whence hath he brought?
Last night, news to me the messenger of the morning wind brought, Saying: “To shortness, its face, the day of labor and of grief hath brought.”
If after Him, I go, He up stirreth calamity: And if I sit from search, in wrath, He ariseth.
To our friend, in beauty of disposition and of fidelity, one reacheth not In this matter, to thee, denial of our work reacheth not.
Pleasant is Khalvat, if my beloved, the Beloved shall be Not if I consume and the candle of assembly, He shall be.
The star gleamed; and the moon of the assembly became: Of our affrighted heart, the consoler and comforter became.
That my heart’s work should be ended, my soul melted; and it became not: In this immature wish, I consumed; and it became not.
For the congratulation of the Pir, wine-seller, the morning-breeze came Saying: “The season of joy, and of pleasure, and of freshness, and of sweet ness is came.”
Not every beloved one that up-kindleth his face the work of a heart-ravisher knoweth. Not every one who maketh the mirror, the work of a Eskandar knoweth.
Arrived the glad tidings that grief’s time shall not remain: Like that remained not; like this shall not remain.
