|For once, O awaited Reality, reveal Thyself in a form material,|
For a thousand prostrations are quivering eagerly in my submissive brow.
|Know the pleasure of tumult: thou art a tune consort with the ear!|
What is that melody worth, which hides itself in the silent chords of the harp.
|Do not jealously protect them , your mirrors are the mirrors |
Which would be dearer in the Maker’s eye if they broken are
|During circumambulation the moth exclaimed, “Those past effects|
Neither in your story of pathos, nor in my tale of love are”
|My dark misdeeds found no refuge in the wide world—|
The only refuge they found was in Thy beginning forgiveness.
|Neither Love has that warmth nor Beauty has that humor|
Neither that restlessness in Ghaznavi nor those curls in the hair locks of Ayaz are
|Even as I laid down my head in prostration a cry arose from the ground:|
Thy heart is enamoured of the idol, what shalt thou gain by prayer?
Translated by: Anonymous