غزل شمارهٔ 2003

All have eaten and fallen asleep, and the house has become empty; it is time for us to saunter forth to the garden,

To draw the skirt of the apple towards the peach, to carry a few words from the dewy rose to the jasmine.

Springtide is like the Messiah, it is all art, a spell, that the plant-martyrs may arise from their winding-sheets.

Since those fair idols opened their mouths in gratitude, the soul not attaining a kiss is drunk with the perfume of their mouths.

The glow on the cheeks of rose and tulip informs me that there is a lamp hidden in this place under the screen.

The leaf trembles on the twig, and my heart is trembling; the leaf trembles in the wind, my heart for the beauty of Khotan.

The hand of the zephyr has fanned the censor till it taught good manners to the children of the garden.

The breath of the Holy Spirit has encountered the trees of Mary; see how husband and wife are playing with hands together [in joy].

The cloud, seeing the lovely ones beneath the canopy, scattered over them jewels and pearls of Aden.

Now that the red rose in joy has rent its skirt, the time has come for the shirt to reach Jacob.

Since the Yemeni carnelian of the Beloved’s lips laughed, the scent of God reaches Muhammad from Yemen.

We have spoken much at random, and our heart has not found repose save upon that scattered tress of the King of the time.