غزل شمارهٔ 11

Though the falcon of the brain yearneth on the wing to be, archers in this desert plain wait upon him secretly!

Yet the tied and twisted cord lacketh not for remedy: Singing can the cure afford of this hard perplexity.

If the power of speech be there, yet is knowledge not possessed; hapless servant, who doth bear such a secret in his breast!

Though a hundred varied ways they should burn and ravage me, there is comfort in my blaze and a glad felicity.

Dust, and dead as dust, are we, yet a heart we merited: Lo! The living deity heart-engendered in the dead.

In my breast there is a flame setteth all the house aglow, yet it is the very same that the house doth overthrow.

Plato’s mind the world described, yet I will not trust in it, for a heart is in my side bold to view the infinite.