غزل شمارهٔ 53

One by one we count our breath on the narrow road to death; like a raging sea we roar as we walk along the shore.

Though the terror of the sea gives to none security, in the secret of the shell self-preserving we may dwell.

Ask them not to price the heart, money-changers of the mart; we can estimate alone the true merit of our stone.

Tribute none is asked of us for our fiefdom ruinous; beggars sitting by the road, we are princes of our- blood.

There is one (O wonderful!) dwells beside me in my soul; who shall say, if it be thee or myself, I meet in me?

Draw aside fate’s veil, I pray, from this Adam shaped of clay; on Thy path precipitate for our coming we await.