غزل شمارهٔ 911

On the day of death, when my bier is on the move, do not suppose that I have any pain at leaving this world.

Do not weep for me, say not “Alas, alas!” You will fall into the devil’s snare—that would indeed be alas!

When you see my hearse, say not “Parting, parting!” That time there will be for me union and encounter.

When you commit me to the grave, say not “Farewell, farewell!” For the grave is a veil over the reunion of paradise.

Having seen the going-down, look upon the coming-up; how should setting impair the sun and the moon?

To you it appears as setting, but it is a rising; the tomb appears as a prison, but it is release for the soul.

What seed ever went down into the earth which did not grow? Why do you doubt so regarding the human seed?

What bucket ever went down and came not out full? Why this complaining of the well by the Joseph of the spirit?

When you have closed your mouth on this side, open it on that, for your shout of triumph will echo in the placeless air.