غزل شمارهٔ 483

In the morning time, a way-farer, on the confines of a land, Kept saying this enigma to a companion :

"O Sufi! pure, becometh wine at that time, "When, in bottle, it bringeth forth (accomplisheth) a forty days' space."

A hundred times, vexed is God with that khirka, Whereof, a hundred idols (of hypocrisy) are in a sleeve.

Though (only) a name, without trace (of reality), is generosity, (Yet), thy need present to a noble one?

O Lord of the harvest ! recompense shall be thine, If, a little pity, thou show to a (poor) corn-gleaner.

In none, I see pleasure and ease ; Neither, the remedy for a heart ; nor, the pain of (working for) a faith.

Dark became the inward parts. It may be that, from the hidden, A lamp, may uplift a khilvat-sitter.

If the finger of a Sulaiman be not (to wear it), What special excellence giveth the engraving of a seal stone ?

Although the way of lovely ones is cruel (haughty) of nature, What will it be if thou be content with a sad (humble) one ?

The wine-house-door (the threshold of the perfect murshid), show ; so that I may inquire, My own end from a fore-see-er.

Neither for Hafiz, present reading (the Kuran) and khilvat; Nor for the sage, a knowledge of certainty.