غزل شمارهٔ 1195

The love of that cherisher of lovers has come to his own house; Love has in form-conceiving a form melting all forms.

You have come to your own house; welcome, enter! Your coming is with joy; enter by the door of the heart, run to the vestibule of the soul.

Every mote of my being is in love with your sun; take heed, for motes have long transaction with the sun.

See how before the window the motes gracefully suspended beat; whoever has the sun for a qibla prays after this fashion.

In the concert of the sun these motes are like Sufis; no one knows to what recitation, to what rhythm, to what harmony.

In every heart there is a different note and rhythm, all stamping feet outwardly, and the minstrels hidden like a secret.

Loftier than all is our inward concert, our particles dancing therein with a hundred kinds of glory and pride.

Shams-i Tabr¯ız¯ı, you are the sultan of the sultans of the soul; no Mah.m¯ud like you ever came into being, nor like me any Ay¯az.