In the battle ranks we have no shield before our face; in the concert we are unaware of reed pipe and tambourine.
We are naught in his love, dust at the foot of his love; we are love fold upon fold, we are all love, nothing else.
When we have obliterated ourselves we become altogether love; when surmeh is pounded, it is nothing but the source of sight.
Every body that has become an accident has become the soul and heart of self-interest. Melt for of all sicknesses, there is nothing worse than being congealed.
Out of desire of that melting and love for that cherishing the liver within me has turned all to blood; I have no liver any more.
My heart is broken into a hundred pieces, my heart has become astray; today if you search, there is no trace of heart in me.
Look at the orb of the moon, waning every day, so that in the dark period you might say there is no moon in the sky.
The increasing leanness of that moon derives from nearness to the sun; when afar, it is full-bodied, but such initiative does not belong to it.
O king, for the sake of the souls send Venus as a minstrel; this soft pipe and tambourine are no match for the concert of the souls.
No, no—for what is Venus when the Sun itself is powerless? To be suitable for such ardor is not in the power of any lute or sun.
