غزل شمارهٔ 18

Better is the robbers’ train than the heaven-pacing brain, better one distress of heart than all Plato’s learned art.

Yesterday the Magian boy told me of love’s secret joy: ‘Better that salt tear of thine than the sweet and ruby wine.’

Better poverty that gains bloodlessly the heart’s domains, than the realm Darius won, Feridun’s dominion.

In the Magian temple cry; let Thy voice be heard on high! But within the Sufi cell better is the whispered spell.

With our river of heart’s blood need is none of Noah’s flood; better there one swelling wave than where Oxus’ waters lave.

Lo, Thy torrent sweeping down threatens to engulf the town! Better let Thy havoc be in the desert’s privacy.

Singer Iqbal, sooth to tell, call him not an infidel: Better he were out of school till his fevered brain shall cool!