غزل شمارهٔ 9

A flame is in my minstrelsy, a fearlessness, a tragedy; a spark is smouldering in my corn, and sprightly blows the breath of morn.

Love keeps no state, no manner grand and yet an axe is in Love’s hand wherewith the mountain’s heart is hued all innocent of Parviz’ blood.

It pricked my heart, this subtlety an orator once told to me: ‘The loved one’s glance hath more to teach than all the wizardry of speech.’

Come to my pillow once again; sit for one moment; for the pain of separation wracks my soul, my cup of loneliness is full.

Awhile into the mead I came, naked my anguished spirit’s flame; the breeze of morning fiercer blew; my heart was sprinkled o’er with dew.

The secret sign will overset the lover’s shrine entire; and yet it is the fearless glance I need that makes the lovers’ heart to bleed.

Water’s the seat of both, and clay; what is the mystery then, I pray, the mind doth like the clay right well, but there the heart is loth to dwell?

Behold, and see! In Ind’s domain Thou shalt not find the like again, that, though a Brahman’s son I be, Tabriz and Rum stand wide to me.