Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی
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The night grows late, the route is up,No need for Saqi now or cup;Pass me thy goblet, friend of mine,Ill pour thee the remaining wine.Whoever from the golden bowlQuaffs the sweet poison of the soul,In my clay jar the bitter juiceIs the sole antidote of use.Lo, from my dust the sparks unspire:Whose spirit shall I set afire?Twas wrong, to kindle in my breastThis furnace of desires unrest!Alas, the Western mind hath soiledThe springs of knowledge undefiled;Stoic alike and PlatonistHave shrouded all the world in mist.AH! I am poisonedhark, the cry Of the worlds heart ascendeth high; Reason replies lamentingly, I know no charm, no remedy.Let it be priest, or beggar poor,King, or the slave that keeps his door,All seek success of merchandiseAmid hypocrisy and lies.The money-changers in the martAre blind of head, and black of heart;The brighter gleams my glowing gem,The meaner is its worth to them.