Ghazal No. 20

Let surma brighten once again your magic-working eyes, and let my frenzied urge to sing about them be intensified.

Invent another pattern, and create a new, maturer man. It does not suit a God to fashion dolls of clay.

The story of my heart is best untold, my anguish best concealed. But, O my confidants, what shall I do about the pleasure of complaining?

Where is the breast-inflaming sigh and where the heart-dissolving tear? Stones to hurl at the mirror of the knot-resolving intellect.

Assemble in the garden and the meadow, and play the lute, drink wine, sing ghazals, and unbutton your qabas.

It is daybreak. The caravan has said its prayers and is all set to start. Perhaps you have not heard the starting-bell.

I do not bear with monarchs’ airs, nor do I seek their favours. O greed-deluded man, look at a pauper’s bravery.