غزل شمارهٔ 2303

Suddenly, having eaten nothing and taken away nothing, I fell from the garden palace and pavilion into the depths of such a well.

The world was no festival for me; I beheld its ugliness, that yellow wanton puts rouge on her face.

How does rouge beautify that thorn of evil root? That thorn which has sunk into every liver and kidney?

She came, that blind crone, with a crown of roses, her black ribbon let loose, having blackened her eyebrows with indigo.

Look not at her anklets, regard her black legs; puppetry is very pretty—when behind a screen!

Go, wash your hands of her, Sufiof well-washed face; shave your heart of her, man of the shaven head!

Unlucky and heavy of soul is he who seeks fortune from her; he is gone in bondage to greatness, and burns like a chip.

Come to our aid, Beloved, amongst the heavy-hearted, you who brought us into this wheel out of nonexistence.

Silence! Speak only of that infinite one of sweet breath; how long will you make discourse of these numbered breaths?