غزل شمارهٔ 332

This house wherein continually rings the sound of the bellstaff—ask of the master what house this house is.

What is this idol-form, if it is the house of the Kaaba? And what is this light of God, if it is the Magian temple?

In this house is a treasure which the whole of being cannot contain; this house and this master are all a fiction and a pretence.

Lay not hand upon this house, for this house is a talisman; speak not to the master, for he is drunk since last night.

The dust and rubbish of this house is all ambergris and musk; the noise of the door of this house is all verse and melody.

In short, whoever enters this house has found a way to the King of the world, the Solomon of the time.

Master, bend down your head once from this roof, for in your fair face is the token of fortune.

I swear by your life that, but for beholding your countenance, though it be the kingdom of the earth, all is mere fantasy and fable.

The garden is baffled as to which is the leaf, which the blossom; the birds are distraught as to which is the snare, which the bait.

This is the Master of heaven, who is like unto Venus and the moon, and this is the house of Love, which is without bound and end.

The soul, like a mirror, has received your image in its heart; the heart has sunk like a comb into the tip of your tress.

Since in Joseph’s presence the women cut their hands, come to me, my soul, for the Soul is there in the midst.

The whole household is drunk, and nobody is aware who enters the threshold, whether it be X or Y.

It is inauspicious; do not sit on the threshold, enter the house at once; he whose place is the threshold keeps all in darkness.

Though God’s drunkards are thousands, yet they are one; the drunkards of lust are all double and treble.

Enter the lions’ thicket and do not be anxious for the wounding, for the anxiety of fear is the figments of women;

For there no wounding is, there all is mercy and love, but your imagination is like a bolt behind the door.

Set not fire to the thicket, and keep silence, my heart; draw in your tongue, for your tongue is a flame.