غزل شمارهٔ 2474

The sand has become satiated with the water; I have not become, bravo! No string in this world is there to fit my long bow.

The sea is my least draft, the mountain my least morsel; what a leviathan I am. O God! Open for me a way.

I am more thirsty than death, I writhe like hell; is not any good fat morsel coming to me, I wonder?

The lean one of love has no remedy but union; none is there but your hand to feed grass to the mouth of love.

Reason enters your trap and loses both head and beard, though it be heavy-headed or swift to leap.

You are the implanter of sincerity in the heart of every unitarian; you likewise print images in the heart of every anthropomorphist.

Noah from the zenith of your wave becomes mate of a raft; spirit from the scent of your street is drunk and dissolute and distraught.

Be silent, and return to the palace of the silent ones; you, cast in a village, return to the city of love.