غزل شمارهٔ 53

Qalandars, who to their sway water strive to win and clay, from the monarch tribute bear though the beggar’s robe they wear.

They appear, and round the sun and the moon their rope is spun; they retire, and in their breast time and Space repose at rest.

When the revel rules the day bright as shimmering silks are they; yet when battle is toward for the sacrifice prepared.

A new order they devise for the broad and dappled skies, bear the ancient stars and all on their backs to funeral.

Time hath from her face untied morrow’s veil, to lay aside; yet to-day men still delight in the wine of yesternight.

Hovers on my lip the word that must never be declared; strange, the learned of the town silent are, nor even frown!