غزل شمارهٔ 1861

It is the rule with drunkards to fall upon one another, to fight and squabble and make tumult.

The lover is worse then the drunkard; the lover also belongs to that party. I will tell what love is; it is to fall into a goldmine.

What may that gold be? The lover is the king of kings; it means becoming secure from death and not caring for the golden crown.

The darvish in his cloak, and in his pocket the pearl—why should he be ashamed of begging from door to door?

Last night that moon came along, having flung his girdle on the road, so drunken that he was not aware that his girdle had fallen.

I said, “Leap up, my heart, place wine in the hand of the soul; for such a time has befallen, it is time to be roistering,

“To become hand in hand with the garden nightingale, to fall into sugar with the spiritual parrot.”

I, heart-forlorn and heart-yielded, fallen upon your way—by Allah, I know of no other place to fall.

If I broke your bowl, I am drunk, my idol. I am drunk— leave me not from your hand to fall into danger.

This is a newborn rule, a newly enacted decree—to shatter glasses, and to fall upon the glassmaker!