On the day when you pass over my grave, bring to mind this terror and confusion of mine;
Fill full of light that bottom of the tomb, O eye and lamp of my light,
That in the tomb this patient body of mine may prostrate to you in gratitude.
Harvest of roses, pass me not in haste, make me happy a moment with that perfume;
And when you pass by, do not suppose that I am far from your window and portico.
If the stones of the tomb have blocked my way, I am unwearying on the path of fantasy.
Though I should have a hundred winding-sheets of satin, I am naked without the vestment of your form.
I will emerge into the hall of your palace, in breaking a hole in the wall perchance I am like an ant.
I am your ant, you are Solomon; not for one moment leave me without your presence.
I have fallen silent; do you speak the rest, for I am shunning henceforth my own speaking and listening.
Shams-i Tabr¯ız, do you invite me, since your invitation is my blast of the trumpet.
