غزل شمارهٔ 361

That one (the true Beloved, or the murshid) who, like the (trodden) dust of the path, made me trampled of tyranny, The dust (of the path of His foot) I kiss; and for (the trouble of) His approach, pardon beg.

Not that one am I, who bewail of violence from Thee. God forbid ! The faithful servant; and slave, well-wishing, I am.

In the curl of Thy (long) tress, my long hope, have I bound ; Be it not that my hand of search, short it (the tress) should make (cut) !

An atom of dust, I am ; and, in Thy street, pleasant, is my time : Friend ! I fear that suddenly, me, a great wind (of calamity), may take.

In the morning, the Pir of the wine-house (the perfect murshid) me, the cup world-viewing (the heart pure of impurity of beholding other than God), gave ; And in that (world-viewing cup like a) mirror, me, informed of Thy beauty, made.

The Sufi of the (lofty) cloister of the holy world am I. But, Now, the (lowly) cloister of the Magians is the charge of mine.

With me, the road. sitter, arise ; and to the wine-house (of love) come : So that thou mayst see how in that circle (of zikr va fikr) master of rank, am I.

Intoxicated, Thou passedest ; and of Hafiz, no thought was Thine : Alas! if the skirt of Thy beauty, my (morning) sigh should catch (consume).

Happy to me it came when, in the morning, the Khusrau of the east (the resplendent sun) spake : " Notwithstanding all my sovereignty, the slave of the Turan King am I."