غزل شمارهٔ 1937

Do not grieve over any joy that has gone forever, for it will return to you in another form, know that for sure.

Did not the child find joy in its nursing and in milk? When the child was weaned from milk, the joy came from wine and honey.

This joy is an unqualified thing which enters various forms, moves from box to box between water and clay;

It suddenly displays its grace in the water of the rain, again enters into the rosebed, and lifts its head from the earth.

Now it comes by water, now by way of bread and meat, now by way of beauty, now by way of horse and saddle.

From behind these veils suddenly one day it peeps and shatters all the idols, that which is neither that nor this.

The soul in sleep leaves the body and appears in a phantasm; the body is deposed and idle—in another form it is manifest.

You might say, “In a dream I saw myself like a cypress, my face as a bed of tulips, my body as roses and jasmine.”

That phantasm of the cypress vanished, the soul returned to its house; verily in this and that is a warning to all beings.

I fear stirring up trouble, though I would have spoken what may be spoken, God speaks fairer than I—do not let go of the saddlestraps of the faith.

F¯a‘il¯atun f¯a‘il¯atun f¯a‘il¯atun f¯a‘il¯at, if you have not goldwheat bread, yet speak the golden words.

At last, Tabriz of the soul, look upon the stars of the heart, that you may see this mundane sun to be a reflection of Shams-e Din.