Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی

42

A hand of dust is all I own;

I scatter it upon the way,

Because I hope that on a day

It shall ascend to heaven’s throne.

What strategem have I, what art?

For on the branch of wisdom’s tree

No thorn has ever sprung for me

That I might thrust into my heart.

The fires of separation give

A brief effulgence to my flame,

And when I would damp down the same,

That very breath I no more live.

Let it not vanish from my vein,

The wine and drunkenness of love;

I suffer none triumph of

My heart, to take it back again.

Upon the tablets thou didst write

The argument entire and whole;

And now, so discipline my soul

That I may read the script aright.

If in thy presence one ghazel

I ever made be sung to thee,

What would it cost, the courtesy

To whisper, ‘Yes, I know him well’?