غزل شمارهٔ 34

At home to loiter never did me please, A rover I, stranger in every land.

At dawn, the ashes thus addressed the breeze: ‘This desert’s air put out my flaming brand;

Pass gently; scatter me not with Thy hand; I yet recall the caravans’s unease.’

My tears, like dew, trickled upon the sand, I, too, being dust on the world’s passages.

Then in my heart I heard a soft voice sing: The stream of time did from my fountain spring.

The past is all my fever and fire of yore, the future all that I am yearning for:

Think not upon thy dust, O think no more – Lo, by the life, I know no perishing!