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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 |
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