غزل شمارهٔ 47

The East, that holds the heavens fast within the noose its fancy cast, its spirit’s bonds are all united, the flames of its desire have died.

The burning glow of living birth pulses no more in its dark earth; it stands upon the river side and gazes at the surging tide.

Faint, faint the fires of worship be in temple and in sanctuary; the Magian still his cup would pass, but stale the wine is in his glass.

The vision of the West is blind, illusion fills the Western mind; drunken with magic scent and hue, it bows before the great untrue.

Swifter it spins than heaven’s sphere; death is a gentler ravisher; its fingers have so torn my soul, never again can it be whole.

Of the earth earthy, it would try to emulate the ancient sky; a rogue, a cheat, of works immense, with pivot none, and little sense.

The East is waste and desolate, the West is more bewildered yet the ardent quest inspires no more, death reigns supreme the whole world o’er.

Bring me the wine of heart’s delight, and spread the banquet of the night; give me the bold, adventurous eye, and in love’s transport let me die.