آڈیوز
یہ صفحہ صرف صداکار نازنین بازیان کی دستیاب آڈیوز دکھاتا ہے۔
The day of union of friends remember: Those times, remember, remember!
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The sun of every vision, Thy beauty be More beautiful than the beauty, Thy beautiful face be.
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If, to limit, the Sufi drink wine to him, sweet may it be! If not, the thought of this work of his, forgotten be!
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In need of the physician’s care, thy body be not; Vexed by injury, thy tender existence be not!
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Ever increasing, Thy beauty be! All years, tulip-hued, Thy face be.
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O Lord! the ball of the sky in the curve of the polo of thine be: The place of existence and of dwelling the space of the plain of thine be!
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‘Tis a long time; and the Heart-possessor a message sent not; A letter, wrote not; and a salutation, sent not.
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Elderly of head, into my head youthful love, hath fallen: And that mystery that, in the heart, I concealed, out hath fallen.
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When, into the mirror of the cup, the reflection of Thy face fell, From the laughter of wine, into the crude desire of the cup, the Aref fell.
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Who, to thy cheek, the hue of the rose and of the wild rose gave, To me, miserable, patience and ease, can give.
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Last night, to the rose, the violet spake; and a sweet trace gave, Saying: “In the world, me, torment a certain one’s tress gave.”
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The Homa of the height of felicity to the snare of ours falleth. If, Thy passing to the dwelling of ours falleth.
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Plant the tree of friendship, that, to fruit, the heart’s desire bringeth: Up-pluck the bush of enmity, that countless troubles bringeth.
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That one that, in his vision, the beauty of the line of the Beloved hath; Certain it is that the acquisition of vision he hath.
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At the time of His face, retirement from the sward, our heart hath: For, like the cypress, foot-binding it is; and like the tulip, stain it hath.
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That one who, in his hand the cup hath. Ever the sovereignty of Jamshid hath.
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That heart that is the hidden-displayer; and that the cup of Jamshid hath, For a seal ring, that awhile became lost, what grief it hath?
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I have an idol that, the canopy of the hyacinth around the rose hath: A line in the blood of the Arghavan, the spring of his cheek hath.
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Every one, who, his heart collected and the beloved acceptable hath, Happiness became his fellow-companion; and fortune, his fellow-sitter, he hath.
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Every one, who regardeth the people of fidelity, Him, in every state, from calamity God preserveth.
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Wonderful harmony and great melody, my minstrel of love hath: Every picture of the hidden that he striketh, path to place hath.
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That one, from whose hyacinth lock, a great torment, ambergris hath. Again, with those heart-gone, grace and reproach hath.
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That one is not the beloved, who hath a hair and a waist: Be the slave of the form of that one who, ravishingness to the highest degree, hath.
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Without the Beloved’s beauty, inclination for the world, my soul hath not: O God, every one who this hath not, that hath not.
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The luminosity of Thy face, the moon halt not: In comparison with Thee, the glory of grass, the rose hath not.
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In this city is no idol that, our heart, taketh: If fortune be my friend, hence my chattels, it taketh.
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If, the heart’s grief from our memory, the cup do not take. The foundation of our work, the anxiety of the vicissitudes will take.
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In the morning, the nightingale told a tale to the east wind, Saying: for us what love for the face of the rose made.
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Come; for plunder of the tray of fasting, the Turk of the sky hath made: Hint at the circulation of the cup, the new crescent moon hath made.
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With the luminous liquid of wine, an Aref purification made, Early in the morning when, to the wine-house, visit he made.
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The Sufi laid the snare; and open, the cover of his box, made. With the sky sorcery-playing, the structure of deceit, he made.
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A nightingale drank the blood of the liver, and gained a rose: With a hundred thorns, perturbed his heart, the wind of, envy made.
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Like the wind, resolution of the head of the Beloved’s street, I will make: By His pleasant perfume, my own breath, musk-raining, I will make.
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Into the curve of that doubled tress, the hand one cannot put: Reliance on Thy covenant and the morning breeze, one cannot make.
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My heart from me, He took; concealed from me, His face, Lie made: For God’s sake! with whom can this sport be made?
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Memory be of that one, who, at the time of journeying memory of us made not: Who, by farewell, joyous our grief-stricken heart made not.
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On her path, I laid my face; and by me passing, she made not. I hoped for a hundred kindnesses; yet one glance, she made not.
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The Heart-Ravisher departed; and hint to those heart-gone made not: Of the companion of the city; and of the friend of the journey, recollection He made not.
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O heart! the grief of love, again, thou sawest what it did, When the heart-ravisher went; and with the beloved, fidelity-observing, what it did.
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Friends! repentance of veiledness, the daughter of the vine made: To the Mohtaseb she went; and by permission the work made.
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Search for the cup of Jamshid from me, years my heart made. And for what it possessed, from a stranger, entreaty made.
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At the head of Jamshid’s cup, at that time thy glance, thou canst make, When the dust of the wine-house, the collyrium of thy eye, thou canst make.
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I know not what is the intoxication that to us its face hath brought: Who is the cup-bearer? This wine, whence hath he brought?
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Last night, news to me the messenger of the morning wind brought, Saying: “To shortness, its face, the day of labor and of grief hath brought.”
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When my Beloved the wine-cup in hand taketh, The market of idols, disaster taketh.
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Save the love of those moon of face, a path my heart taketh not: To it, in every way, I give counsel; but it kindleth not.
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If the Saki the wine into the cup, in this way cast All the Arefs into ever drinking, He will cast.
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A world altogether, to pass life a single moment in grief is not worth: For wine, sell our ragged religious garment; for more than this it is not worth.
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In eternity without beginning, of glory, the splendor-ray of Thy beauty boasted. Revealed became love; and, upon all the world, fire dashed.
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In the morning when, his standard on the mountainous lands, the Khosro of the east pitched, With the hand of mercy, the door of hopeful ones, my beloved beat;
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