You are not familiar with the hardships of solving enigmas
O Beautiful Rose! Perhaps you do not have sublime feelings in your heart
Though you adorn the assembly yet do not participate in its struggles
In life’s assembly I am not endowed with this comfort
In this garden I am the complete orchestra of Longing
And your life is devoid of the warmth of that Longing
To pluck you from the branch is not my custom
This sight is not different from the sight of the
eye which can only see the appearances
Ah! O colourful rose this hand is not one of a tormentor
How can I explain to you that I am not a flower picker
I am not concerned with intricacies of the philosophic eye
Like a lover I see you through the nightingale’s eye
In spite of innumerable tongues you have chosen silence
What is the secret which is concealed in your bosom?
Like me you are also a leaf from the garden of Tur
Far from the garden I am, far from the garden you are
You are content but scattered like fragrance I am
Wounded by the sword of love for search I am
This perturbation of mine a means for fulfillment could be
This torment a source of my intellectual illumination could be
This very frailty of mine the means of strength could be
This mirror of mine envy of the cup of Jam could be
This constant search is a world‐illuminating candle
And teaches to the steed of human intellect its gait