غزل شمارهٔ 423

Has perchance this instant the tip of that tress become scattered? For such a Tartar musk has become amber-diffusing.

Has perchance the dawn breeze lifted the veil from His face? For thousands of unseen moons have begun to shine.

Is there any soul which is not happy through His sweet perfume? Though the soul has no clue as to the source of its happiness.

Many a happy rose is laughing through the breath of God, yet every soul does not know whence it has become laughing.

How fairly the sun of His cheek has shone today, through which thousands of hearts have become rubies of Badakhsh¯an.

Yet why should not the lover set his heart upon Him through whose grace the body has become wholly soul?

Did the heart perchance one morning behold Him as He is, so that from that vision of Him it has today become after this wise?

Ever since the heart beheld that peri-born beauty of mine, it has taken the glass into its hand and become an exorcist.

If His sweet breeze blows upon the tree of the body, how a-tremble two hundred leaves and two hundred branches have become!

If there is not an immortal soul for every one slain by Him, why has it become so easy for the lover to yield up his soul?

Even the aware ones are unaware of His life and activities, for His life and activities have become their veil.

If the minstrel of Love has not breathed upon the reed of a heart, why has every tip of the hair become lamenting like the reed pipe?

If Shams-i Tabr¯ız does not fling clods from the roof against the heart, then why have the souls become as it were his doorkeepers?