غزل شمارهٔ 779

All slept, and yet sleep did not transport me, heart-forlorn as I am; all night my eyes counted the stars in the sky.

Sleep had so departed from my eyes as if never to return; my sleep had quaffed the poison of separation from you, and expired.

How would it be if you concocted a remedy out of encounter for one wounded, who has committed his heart and eyes to your hands?

No, it is not right to close the door of beneficence once and for all; if you will not give pure wine, less than one mouthful of dregs will you not give?

God has placed all manners of delight in a single chamber; no man without you ever found the right way into that chamber.

If I have become dust in the path of love, regard me not as insignificant; how should he who beats on the door of union with you be insignificant?

Fill my sleeve with unseen pearls—a sleeve which has wiped many a tear from these eyes.

Whenever the policeman of love has constrained anyone on a dark night, your moon has compassionately pressed him in its silvery bosom.

If the wandering heart returns of your grace, it is the story of the night, the disk of the moon, the camel, and the Kurd.

Were not these inanimates originally of water? The world is a cold place; it came and congealed one by one.

Our blood in our body is the water of life, and sweet; when it comes forth from its place, see how it is all the same!

Do not congeal the water of speech, and bring it not from that fountain, so that it is silk on that side and striped cloth on this.