غزل شمارهٔ 2514

There entered the city of man a mighty torrent; the heavens were destroyed, and a waterwheel of pure light was set turning.

That city was simply madness, mankind therein distracted; for he had escaped from yesterday and tomorrow, when he awakened from a sleep.

The water boiled and became a wind which caused every mountain to fly like straw before a fierce wind, hot and burning.

Having cleaved through the mountains, he revealed the mines, you could see ruby on ruby shining like moonlight.

In that glow you behold him, a Chinese moonface, his two hands of separation full of blood like the hands of a butcher.

From the scent of the blood of his hands all the spirits are drunk with him; all the skies abject before him—bravo, the gracious Giver!

When he slays, it is like the trampling of grapes that through the perishing may become immortal, the grapes become syrup.

Though you trample hundreds of thousands of grapes, all will be one when such a door has been opened for the soul towards unification.

It is necessary that Shams-i Tabr¯ız¯ı should take the hand of that soul, put the ring on his finger, bestow kingly apparatus.