شاعر: رومی
وزن: فعولن فعولن فعولن فعل (متقارب مثمن محذوف یا وزن شاهنامه)
Our desert has no bounds, our hearts and souls know no rest.
World upon world took shape and form; which of these shapes is ours?
When you see on the road a severed head which goes rolling towards our arena,
Ask of it, ask of it our secrets, for from it you will hear our hidden mystery.
How would it be, if but one ear showed itself, familiar with the tongues of our birds?
How would it be if one bird took wing, having on its neck the collar of our Solomon’s secret?
What am I to say, what suppose? For this tale transcends our bounds and possibilities.
Yet how shall I keep silence? For every moment this distraction of ours becomes yet more distraught.
What partridges and falcons are flying with wings outspread amidst the air of our mountainland,
Amidst the air, which is the seventh atmosphere, on the summit whereof is our portico!
Leave this tale; ask not of us, for our tale is broken entirely;
S.al¯ah. al-H. aqq wa’l-D¯ın will display to you the beauty of our Emperor and Ruler.
