Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی

5

Out of our dust thou stirrest

What sighings of despair!

Nearer art thou than spirit,

Yet minglest all too rare.

Upon the dawn’s wind billows

Secretly thou dost come

Amid the roses’ fragrance,

And all the garden’s bloom.

Yet in the West none knows thee,

The East all fable is:

‘Tis time within this world, then,

To grave new images!

Who wills that all the nations

Before his might should yield,

With Changez lance to pierce him

His frenzy shall be stilled.

I am a slave unfettered,

And freedom I might gain

Were not this twisted ringlet

About my neck, a chain.

I know naught else but weeping

Men call the poet’s art,

And what is this thou sprinklest

Like dew upon my heart?