غزل شمارهٔ 139

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.

Malice from her heart, the torrent of our tears, took not. Impression on the hard stone, the rain-drop made not.

O Lord! Preserve that young saucy one: For caution, against the arrow of the sigh of those sitting in the corner, she made not.

Last night, from my lamenting, neither fish nor fowl slept: But behold that one of saucy eye who, raised from sleep, her head made not.

Like the candle, I desired to die at her feet: Like the morning breeze, passing by us, she made not.

O soul! without sufficiency, stone of heart, is what person, Who, the shield before the wound of thy arrow, himself made not.

O saucy one! behold the bird of my heart, wing and feather consumed: Go out of my head the crude madness of being a lover, it made not.