Section
می باقی
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.
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!
