غزل شمارهٔ 22

O Heart-ravisher! thou art not a speech-recognizer. Here, the fault is: When thou hearest the speech of people of heart speak not saying: “A fault it is.”

Neither to this world, nor to the next world, boweth my head Blessed be God! for this tumult that, in our head, is.

Within this shattered heart, I know not who is. For, I am silent; and in clamour and tumult, it is.

Forth from the screen, went my heart. O Minstrel! where art thou? Ho! sing. For, on account of this note, in melody, our work is.

To the world’s work, never was ‘attention mine; In my sight, Thy face its happy adorner thus is.

From a fancy that I mature, nights I have not slept: Wine-sickness of a hundred nights, I have: the wine-house, where is?

With my heart’s blood, thus it is that the cloister became stained: If ye wash me in wine, lawful at your hand it is?

In the cloister of the magians, me dear they hold for the reason That, in our heart, a fire that dieth not ever is.

What was the melody that last night, the minstrel played? Life passed; and yet, full of that melody, my brain is?

Last night, within my heart, the announcement of love for Thee, they gave Yet, with desire, full of that voice, the plain of my heart is?