غزل شمارهٔ 2399

I am sprung from you and likewise you have devoured me, I melt in you since through you I froze.

Now you press me in your hand, now under your foot with grief; for the grape does not become wine until it is pressed.

Like the light of the sun, you have cast us on the earth, then little by little carried us back in that direction.

We return from the body’s window like light into the orb of a sun, pure of sin and blemish.

Whoever sees that orb says, “He has become alive,” and whoever comes to the window says, “So-and-so is dead.”

He has veiled our origin in that cup of pain and joy; in the core of origin we are pure, all the rest left behind like dregs.

Source of the source of souls, Shams-i H. aqq-i Tabr¯ız, a hundred livers are on fire for you—so how many kidneys?