غزل شمارهٔ 70

In the mead a tulip blows in whose breast no yearning glows, a narcissus, languid too, yet it lacked the eye to view.

Billowing breath was in the clay, but no heart did it display; caravan upon the road – such was life, yet where the load?

Time itself was void and free of the topers’ song of glee; wine was in the glass aflame yet was none to quaff the same.

Sinai’s lightning made complaint that desire was dumb and faint; in the peaceful valley there silent was the voice of prayer.

Love upon our woe exprest builds anew the great unrest; else no murmur ever stirs from these silent banqueters.