غزل شمارهٔ 2589

You imprisoned in air nine spheres of emerald till you brought into orbit a form of earth.

Water, what are you washing? Wind, what are you seeking? Thunder, why are you roaring? Spheres, why are you turning?

Love, why are you laughing? Reason, why are you binding? Patience, why are you content? Face, why are you pale?

What place is there for the head on the road of fidelity? What worth has life itself in the religion of manliness?

That man is perfect in quality who is the quarry of annihilation; there is room for not one hair in the circle of uniqueness.

Whether anguish or joy, it is far from freedom; cold is that person who remains in hotness and coldness.

Where is the gleam of the charming brow if you have seen my moon? Where is the gleam of drunkness if you have drunk spiritual wine?

Has not disquietude from this purse and that bowl seized you? After all you are not a blind ass; what are you circling around?

With the breast unwashed what profits it to wash the face? From greed you are like a broom, you are always in this dust.

Every day for me is Friday, and this sermon of mine is perpetual; this pulpit of mine is high, my screen is true manliness.

When the steps of this pulpit become empty of men, the spirits and the angels will bring a present from God.