غزل شمارهٔ 927

Henceforward the nightingale in the garden will tell of us, it will tell of the beauty of that heart-ravishing Beloved.

When the wind falls upon the head of the willow and it begins to dance, God alone knows what things it says to the air.

The plane-tree understands a little about the meadow’s burning, it lifts up two broad hands sweetly and prays.

I ask the rose, “From whom did you steal that beauty?” The rose laughs softly out of shame, but how should she tell?

Though the rose is drunk, it is not dissolute like me, that it should tell you the secret of the intoxicated narcissus.

When you seek secrets, go amongst the drunkards, for the tipsy head shamelessly tells the secret.

Inasmuch as wine is the daughter of the vine and the family of generosity, it has opened the purse’s mouth and speaks of lavishness;

Especially the wine of the heavenly trellis from the Allgenerous Almighty; haply God will speak of its lavishness and generosity.

That new wine ferments from the breast of the gnostic, out of the depths of his body’s vat it invites you to the feast.

Since the breast gives milk, it can also give wine; from the breast its flowing fountain tells a pretty tale.

When that spirit becomes more intoxicated, it stakes its cloak, lays down cap, and abandons this gown.

When the reason drinks blood-red wine recklessly, it opens its mouth and tells the mysteries of Majesty.

Be silent, for no one will believe you; bad copper swallows not what the philosopher’s stone says.

Bear tidings to Tabriz, Pride of the World; perchance our Shams-i D¯ın will speak your praise.