غزل شمارهٔ 2244

I am not satiated, not satiated with your laughing lips; a thousand blessings on your lips and teeth!

Has any man ever wearied, my son, of his soul? You are my soul since my soul and yours are one and the same.

I am thirsty and suffering from dropsy, my death and life are from water; pass around the cup, for I am the slave of your turning around.

You make dispensation, go offer me to yourself that my head may raise itself up from your shirt.

Though my two hands are wounded, my hand belongs to you; of what use are my hands without your breath and incantation?

Your love said, “Sir, come into my private chamber, that no thief may make designs on your inner chamber.”

I said, “Blessed one, I have become a ring on this door so that no thought of me may trouble your doorkeeper.”

He said, “You are both standing at the door and in my bosom, exterior and interior—both homelands are yours.

Silence, and recite no more; sufficient should be this hospitality and table. For all eternity Rum and Turk shall eat of your table.