غزل شمارهٔ 1025

Again in sleep that root of wakefulness gave me the opium of wild commotion and set me reeling.

With a hundred devices I try to be heedless, I make myself to ignore him; that perfect moon comes, holding in his hand such a bowl.

He says to me, “Will you not say how long with those beggarly looks, like every naked unfortunate, you will go on begging at every door?

With this complaining and reviling you are the slave of dervish habit and ewer; if you are true and a man of verity, why are you in this sack?

Kings are put to shame by these things which are born of you; you were an angel—why must you be the plaything of the devil?”

Who knows to speak what he speaks? For the world is not his mate; the universe is blind, and being deaf, to what he discloses and conceals.

If I had the tongue to reveal the Beloved’s secret, every soul which heard would burst out of this pass.

On account of that sea-bountiful Beloved my state is very difficult, for my breast is laid waste by that leaping and charging to and fro.

If I tell the believers they will all instantly become infidels, and if I tell the infidels no infidel will remain in the world.

When last night his phantom came in sleep, graciously it enquired of me, “How are you?” I said, “Without you, in dire straits.”

If I had a hundred souls, they would all become blood shed in grieving for you, Beloved; your heart is stone, {granite,} or a mountain of marble!