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یہ صفحہ صرف وزنِ فعلاتن فعلاتن فعلاتن فعلن (رمل مثمن مخبون محذوف) میں آنے والی نظمیں دکھاتا ہے۔
The splendor of youth’s time again belongeth to the garden; The glad tidings of the rose reacheth the bulbul sweet of song.
From the fire of my heart, my chest in grief for the Beloved consumed. In this house, was a fire, that the house consumed.
O Saki! be the coming of the new year auspicious to thee: And these promises thou madest, let them not go from thy memory.
O fragrant morning breeze! The Beloved’s rest-place is where? The dwelling of that Moon, Lover-slayer, Sorcerer, is where?
The fast a side hath gone; and the Id hath come; and hearts have risen: In the wine-house, the wine hath come into tumult; and it is necessary to ask.
Went heart and faith; and the Heart-Ravisher with reproach arose, And said: “Sit not with me; for, from thee, safety hath risen.”
From me intoxicated, is the desire of devotion and of covenant, and of rectitude; For, in Eternity without beginning, I became renowned for wine-drinking.
Tress dishevelled; sweat expressed; lip laughing; intoxicated; Garment rent; song-singing; goblet in His hand;
Since thy tress-tip, into the power of the breeze, fell, My distraught heart, into two pieces on account of grief, fell.
From the wine’s sparkle, the Sufi knew the hidden mystery: Every one’s essence, by this ruby thou canst know.
The garden of lofty Paradise is the retreat of Darvishes: Grandeur’s source is the service of Darvishes.
The fresh ruby, thirsty for blood the ruby lip of the Beloved of mine is Yet for seeing Him, life-surrendering the work of mine is.
‘Tis a time since the passion for idols was my faith: The pain of this work, the joy of the sorrowful heart of mine is.
This blackish one, all the sweetness of the world is with him. The fair eye, the laughing lip, the joyous heart is with Him.
O Lord! that candle, night-illuminating, from the house of whom is? Our soul hath consumed. Ask ye, saying: “She, the beloved, of whom is?”
From the city, my moon went this week; to my eye a year it is: The state of separation what knowest thou how difficult the state is?
A gazer, save upon Thy face, the pupil of our eye is not. A remembrancer save of Thee, our overturned heart is not.
From the ray of Thy face, luminous a glance is not. that is not: The favor of the dust of Thy door, on an eye is not, that is not.
The produce of the workshop of existence and dwelling all this is naught; Bring wine. For the goods of the world all this is naught.
O Zahed, pure of nature! censure not the profligates; For, against thee, they will not record another’s crime.
At dawn, the bird of the sward spake to the rose: “Display less disdain; for, in this garden many a one like thee hath blossomed.”
From His lip of ruby, a draft we tasted not; and He departed: His face, moon of form, we beheld not to our fill; and He departed.
If, to limit, the Sufi drink wine to him, sweet may it be! If not, the thought of this work of his, forgotten be!
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!
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.
Who, to thy cheek, the hue of the rose and of the wild rose gave, To me, miserable, patience and ease, can give.
Wonderful harmony and great melody, my minstrel of love hath: Every picture of the hidden that he striketh, path to place hath.
That one, from whose hyacinth lock, a great torment, ambergris hath. Again, with those heart-gone, grace and reproach hath.
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.
In this city is no idol that, our heart, taketh: If fortune be my friend, hence my chattels, it taketh.
A nightingale drank the blood of the liver, and gained a rose: With a hundred thorns, perturbed his heart, the wind of, envy made.
Into the curve of that doubled tress, the hand one cannot put: Reliance on Thy covenant and the morning breeze, one cannot make.
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.
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.
Friends! repentance of veiledness, the daughter of the vine made: To the Mohtaseb she went; and by permission the work made.
Search for the cup of Jamshid from me, years my heart made. And for what it possessed, from a stranger, entreaty made.
If the Saki the wine into the cup, in this way cast All the Arefs into ever drinking, He will cast.
In eternity without beginning, of glory, the splendor-ray of Thy beauty boasted. Revealed became love; and, upon all the world, fire dashed.
Desire of passion for Thy fresh down to whomsoever, shall be: Forth from the circle he planteth not his foot, so long as he shall be.
I and refusal of wine! What a tale this is! Doubtless, this degree of reason mine; and sufficient is.
Not all purity without alloy is the coat of the Sufi; O many a Khirka, that is worthy of the fire!
Musk-diffusing, the breath of the morning breeze shall be: Again the world old young shall be.
“The day of separation from, and the night of disunion with, the Beloved is ended:” This omen, I cast; the star passed; and the work of grief is ended.
When, in prayer, to me recollection of the curve of Thy eye-brow came. A state passed that, into lament, the prayer-arch came.
O heart! glad tidings that the morning breeze hath come back, From the quarters of Saba the lap-wing of good news hath come back.
In the morning, to my pillow, vigilant fortune came: Said: Arise! For that thy dear Khosro hath come.
Whoever became the confidant of his own heart, in the sacred fold of the Beloved remained: He, who knew not this matter, in ignorance remained.
Thou wrotest not the account of thy state; and, passed some time: Where a confidant so that to thee, I may send some message?
