غزل شمارهٔ 5

From my handful of dust You draw out a hundred laments; you are nearer than the soul – for all Your shy reserve.

Hiding in the gentle breeze, thief-like You enter the garden; You mix with the flower’s perfume, and blend with the bud.

The West is indifferent to You, the East is all legends; it is time you etched a new design in the world.

He who is heady with the ambition of world-conquest; soothe his craze with the lancet of Genghis.

An unreined bondsman, I might slip away again – suppose You hung these curly tresses around my neck!

Lament is all I know, but they say I am a singer of ghazal; what is this dew-like thing You are pouring on my heart?