At morning time, a perfume from the Beloved’s tress, the breeze brought: Into action, our heart distraught for Thee brought.
From the garden of the chest, I up-plucked that pine-branch. From grief for which, every rose that blossomed, the labor-load brought.
From the roof of his palace, I beheld the moon’s splendor, From shame of which, its face to the wall, the sun brought.
From fear of the plunder of His eye, I released my bloody heart; But, it spilled blood on the path. In this way, it, it brought.
In season and out of season, forth to the voice of the minstrel and of the Saki I went: For, with difficulty, on account of the heavy road, news, the messenger brought.
The way of graciousness and of kindness, altogether is the gift of the Beloved: Whether the rosary He ordered; or, the Christian cord, He brought.
May God pardon the frown of his eye-brow, although powerless it made me; In grace, to me sick, a message, it brought.
Last night, I wondered at Hafez’s cup and goblet: But, I argued not. For them, like a Sufi, he brought.
