غزل شمارهٔ 1077

Each moment I catch from my bosom the scent of the Beloved; how should I not take my self every night into my bosom?

Last night I was in Love’s garden; that desire ran into my head; his sun peeped out of my eye, so that the river began to flow.

Every laughing rose that springs from the bank of that river of love had escaped from the thorn of being and eluded Dhu ’l-Faq¯ar;

Every tree and grass was a-dancing in the meadow, but in the eye of the vulgar was bound and at rest.

Suddenly from one side our Cypress appeared, so that the garden was beside itself and the plane-tree clapped its hands.

Face like fire, wine like fire, love afire—all three delightful; soul because of the intermingled fires lamenting, “Whither shall I flee?”

In the world of Divine Unity there is no room for number, but number exists of necessity in the world of five and four.

You may count a myriad sweet apples in your hand; if you want to make one, squeeze them all together.

A myriad grapes went forth from the veil of skin; when skin no more remained, there remained the wine of the Prince.

Without counting the letters, behold what is this speech of the heart; unicolority—is it not a form derived from the root of the affair?

Shams-i Tabr¯ız¯ı is seated like a king, and before him my verses are ranged like willing slaves.