غزل شمارهٔ 2259

Come, beat the drum of fidelity, for your hour has come; give wine red as the Judas flowers, for your Judas tree has blossomed.

Let us press new wine from the sweet grapes of your garden, let us scatter fruits from your lusty young tree.

Drive not soul and reason from the table of your bounty; what do two or three flies consume to diminish the plenty of your table?

The desire of all the desirous is but one grain of your harvest; the two worlds are but two small townships in your world.

If all day the sun strikes the sword of light, it becomes less than a mote before your terrible lance.

Since the soul of heaven kisses the earth before you, on what wing shall earth fly towards your heaven?

It sits with broken wings, gazing towards you, for in that same moment there arrives to it the succor of your present.

No night nor dawntide has passed in the world, in which my breath has not been set afire by the threat of your watchman.

Did you not make a promise to me? Did you not swear an oath, that at the time of my going up your ladder should arrive?

When you gaze on your servant with that narcissus eye, his soul flies from the place to your placelessness.

You cherish him saying, “Sorrowful one, do not grieve henceforward, for heaven itself has thundered with your loud lamentation.

“I am more compassionate in cherishing than mother and father; it was to mature you that your trial occurred.

“I will make a garden, a Paradise, a cure out of your pain; out of your smoke I will fashion a new heaven better than this.

“I have spoken all, yet I have not spoken the root of the matter, Beloved, for it is better that men should hear your secret from your own mouth.”