I am seeing a moon outside the eye in the eye, which neither eye has seen nor ear heard of.
I do not see tongue and soul and heart save without myself, from that moment that I stole a glance at that cheek.
Had Plato seen the loveliness and beauty of that moon, he would have become even madder and more distressed than I.
Eternity is the mirror of the temporal, the temporal the mirror of pre-eternity—in this mirror those two are twisted together like his tresses.
A cloud beyond the senses whose rain is all spirit; sprinkling on the dust of the body—what rains he has rained!
The moonfaced ones of heaven, seeing the picture of his face, have become ashamed before that beauty and scratched the back of their necks.
Posteternity took the hand of pre-eternity and took it towards the palace of that moon: having seen both, it laughed in jealous pride at the two.
About and around his palace what lions there are, roaring jealously, aiming at the blood of the self-sacrificing, adventurous men.
Suddenly the word jumped from my mouth, “Who is that king? Shams al-D¯ın king of Tabriz”; and at those words my blood surged.
