غزل شمارهٔ 31

Although the soul, I know, one day unveiled shall be, think not it shall be so by writhing endlessly.

It needs a blow, to stir the sleeping soul from earth unswept, the harp can ne’er bring melody to birth.

Thy cup replenish still with tears and midnight sighs, replenish it until the radiant sun shall rise.

So faint a mote thou art, I fear thou’lt vanish quite; then fortify thy heart to meet the morning light.

Transcend the dust, nor take thy self but dust to be; if thou thy breast with break, the moon shall shine from thee.

If in thy face they lock the gate to selfhood’s shrine, strike head upon the rock and see the ruby shine.