غزل شمارهٔ 2083

If my words were not worthy of your lips, then pick up a heavy stone and shatter my mouth.

When a child speaks nonsense, does not the loving mother prick his lips to teach him manners?

For the sake of the majesty of your lips, burn and tear and rend and dash to pieces two hundred mouths and worlds.

When a thirsty man boldly runs to the seashore, does not the wave lift up its sword to his neck?

I am the slave of the lily which, having seen your rose bower and been put to shame by your narcissus, its ten tongues became dumb.

But I am like a tambourine; when you strike your hand on me I cry out, “Beat my face like a mortar!”

Lay me not aside until the concert grows hot; draw your skirt aside from the impure world.

Yes, the eyes are intoxicated from the rose bower of meaning, yet the song of the bulbul is sweet in the rose bower.

If Joseph’s beauty is fairer naked, yet the eyes are not opened save by his shirt.

Though the glitter of the sun of the soul is the origin, no man has reached that heaven without a body.

Silence! for if the corpse-washer binds my mouth, you will hear this melody from the grave after I am dead.