غزل شمارهٔ 1397

Of these two thousand I’s and we’s I wonder, which one am I? Give ear to my babble, do not lay your hand on my mouth.

Since I have gone out of control, do not put glass on my path, for if you do I will stamp and break all that I find.

Because every moment my heart is confused with your fantasy, if you are joyous I am joyful, if you are sorrowing I am sorrowful.

You give bitterness and I become bitter, you give grace and I become all grace; with you it is pleasant, O my sugar-lipped, sweet-chinned idol.

You are the original—what person am I? A mirror in your hand; whatever you show, that I become, I am a well-proved mirror.

You are like the cypress of the meadow, I am like your shadow; since I have become the shadow of the rose, I have pitched my tent beside the rose.

If without you I break off a rose, it will become a thorn in my hand; and if I am all thorn, through you I am all rose and jasmine.

Every moment I drain a bloody beaker of the blood of my heart; every instant I break my own pitcher against the saki’s door.

Every second I reach out my hand towards the skirt of an idol, that he may scratch my cheek, that he may rend my shirt.

The grace of S.al¯ah.-i Dil u D¯ın shone in the midst of my heart; he is the heart’s candle in the world; who am I? His bowl.