غزل شمارهٔ 2135

The glow of the light of daybreak is in your emerald vault, the goblet of the blood of twilight is your blood-measuring bowl.

Mile on mile, torrent on torrent come dancing and gliding to the shore of your sea.

With all the elevation and aspiration of the moon, the cap falls off the head of the moon when the moon raises its face to gaze upon your height.

Every morn the nightingales lament like the heart-forlorn ones to the melodies of those attaining your verdant meadow.

The spirits seek vision, the hearts all seek the Beloved; you in whose broad orchard four streams are let flow—

one stream pure water, another honey, the third fresh milk, the fourth your ruby wine.

You never give me a chance, you are giving wine upon wine; where is the head, that I may describe the drinking-cup of your wine?

Yet who am I? Heaven itself in the round of this heavy bumper finds not a moment’s peace from your love and the craving for you.

Moon of silver girdle, you have experience of love; heaven, loverhood is apparent in your features.

When love is yoked to the heart it wearies of the heart’s chatter: heart, be silent! How long this striving and inquiring of yours?

The heart said, “I am His reed pipe, I wail {by His breath.}” I said, “Be lamenting now, the slave of whose passion is the soul.”

We have opened your door; do not desert your companions; in thankfulness for an all-embracing love which has seized you from head to toe.