Vol. 13

Come, let us go to Sangaraan — all the beautiful ones are there; the Panjshir's mulberries, roaring sea, laughing children, presence of saints; my heart pounds for Kabul.

O merciless idol — make me your prey, throw a lasso, shoot an arrow I will place within my chest; your seductive eye drowns my heart in blood; come that I may be your sacrifice, slain by a single glance.

The song of life sang into my ear: turn toward love, for time is short. A philosophical three-couplet poem — the speaker a fistful of dust in the world's expanse, knowing no realm but longing.

The memory of that walking cypress brings life back into my body; I will not lift one step from your threshold even if the sky comes to the ground; since I have seen your eyebrow's bow, an arrow keeps coming into my eyes.

Light of my eyes — without you I cannot even for one night be alone with myself and live; your love carries many torments; but union with you carries many secrets; I stood watching on the road to your union.

O envy of flowers — you deceived me; for ages I wanted a single kiss and you deceived me with today and tomorrow; I resolved to take your name no more, you put my heart at ease — and deceived me again.

The song of the evening arrives suddenly from a shepherd's pipe — accustom yourself to this melody, make your way to the tavern; white clouds rain, the meadow takes on color, the morning breeze scatters leaves.

I am drunk, O cupbearer — the mahfil (gathering) set in uproar by one sip of wine. The saaqi, the cupbearer, is as much a figure of spiritual mediation as domestic service in the ghazal tradition.

Your love and affection — threads are bound at my feet; I cannot take your name to my lips; I burned again — burn me again; O your two warm eyes — you are my sea.

I have lamented much in search of a kindred soul — I hear at midnight the lamenting of a caravan bell; my complaint is against the sky; when will the fever of your love release my collar?