غزل شمارهٔ 49

My soul, embattled with fortune ever, weeps like a river among the mountains.

Open and secret fate is assailing, to the unfailing fickle and faithless.

Mountain and desert, ocean and prairie secret unwary un-sympathizing.

Stranger to passion, stranger to yearning rivulet’s turning, spray of the fountains.

Pale lamentation’s flameless outpouring nightingales soaring song in the thicket.

Burns in my bosom the brand of passion; in such a fashion burns not the tulip.

No wine of Saki, no spirits’ riot; the soul unquiet bitterly suffers.