غزل شمارهٔ 61

Fool! Is there then such hope in thee of winning Europe’s sympathy? The falcon grieves not overmuch about the bird that’s in his clutch.

Shame on thee, only to desire rubies bequeathed thee by thy sire! Is there not one delight alone – to win thee rubies from the stone.

Speak not about the world to me, if it be not or if it be; I only know that I am I, the world-illusion let go by.

Trembles each tavern-glass with fear because the officer is here, except one lover’s bowl doth make the very stones with dread to shake.

Sayst thou that veiled the selfhood is? Say on; but let me tell thee this – tear not this veil into a shred; narrow’s the vision in the head.

The ancient bough, beneath whose shade thy little sprouting wings were laid, were it into shame to move at last thy nest, when all its leaves are cast?

Call that a song, which Nature brings to serve as music for her strings; what use is in the minstrelsy that all with Nature doth agree?