غزل شمارهٔ 2530

My heart came like a pen in the fingers of the Beloved; tonight it is writing zai, tomorrow it will write rai.

He trims a pen for epistolary style, copying and the rest; the pen says, “I am resigned, you know; who am I, lord?

Now he blackens its face, now he rubs it in his hair; now he holds it upside down, now he uses it for a task.

On one sheet he cancels a world and makes it headless; on another sheet he delivers a [perilous] conjunction from calamity.

The splendor of the pen is according to the dignity of the scribe, whether it is in the hand of a king or a commander.

He splits its head for the reason he knows; Galen knows best what is best for the patient.

That pen is unable to utter by its own reason any applause; that pen knows not of its own nature to make disapproval.

Whether I call it pen or call it flag, in it is sense and senselessness—bravo, the conscious senseless one!

The mind can not compass its description, for in it is the union of opposites, a composition without composition, amazing!—constrained yet with free will.