غزل شمارهٔ 2144

Whatever comes of the world’s affairs, how does that affect your business? If the two worlds have become an idol-temple, where is that roguish idol of yours?

Grant that the world is in famine, there is no bowl [of wine] and bread any more; O king of the manifest and hidden, where are your measure and store?

Grant that the world is all thorn, scorpion and snake; O joy and gladness of the soul, where are your rose bower and rosebed?

Grant that liberality itself is dead, that miserliness has slain all; O our heart and eye, where are your pension and robe of honor?

Grant that both the sun and the moon have sunk into hell; O succor of hearing and sight, where are your torch and light?

Grant that the jeweler is not after any customer, how shall you not take the leadership? Where is your pearl-raining cloud?

Grant there is no mouth, there is no speech of tongue to tell the secrets; where is the surging of your heart?

Come, leave all this, for we are drunk with union and encounter; the hour is late—come quickly, where is this house of your vintner?

Drunken sharp-glancer of mine, my fellow in heart and hand, if you are not dissolute and in dotage, where are your cloak and turban?

A whore has carried off your cap, another your gown; your face is pale with a moonlike beauty; where is your support and protection?

A stranger is waylaying the path to the drunkards of eternity: why do you not act the policeman? Where is your wound thrust? Where are your gallows?

Silence, word-scatterer! Interpret not to ordinary people what is fit only for the ears of the silent ones; where is your ecstasy and speech?