غزل شمارهٔ 1335

I cried out at midnight, “Who is in this house of the heart?” He said, “It is I, by whose countenance the sun and the moon are put to shame.”

He said, “Why is this house of the heart full of all sorts of images?” I said, “These are the reflections of You, whose face is the envy of Chigil.”

He said, “What is this other image, full of the heart’s blood?” I said, “This is the image of me, heart wounded and feet in the mire.”

I bound the neck of my soul and brought it before Him as a token: “It is a sinner of love; do not acquit your sinner.”

He gave me the end of a thread, a thread full of mischief and craft; he said, “Pull, that I may pull, pull and at the same time do not break.”

From that tent of the soul the form of my Turk flashed out fairer than before; I reached my hand towards him; He struck my hand, saying, “Let go!”

I said, “You have turned harsh, like So-and-so.” He said, “Know that I am harsh for a good purpose, not harsh out of rancour and spite.

Whoever enters in saying, ‘It is I,’ I strike him on the brow, for this is the sanctuary of Love, animal, it is not a sheepcote.”

S.al¯ah.-i Dil u D¯ın is truly the image of that Turk; rub your eyes, and behold the image of the heart, the image of the heart.