I called out at midnight, "Who is in this heart's house?" It said, "It is I, whose face shames the moon and the sun."
It asked, "Why is this heart's house full of images?" I replied, "This is your reflection, O face that rivals the beauty of Chigil."
It asked, "What is this other image, full of blood and sorrow?" I said, "This is the image of my weary heart, stuck in the mud."
I bound the neck of my soul and presented it as a sign, "The culprit is love; do not make yourself guilty, forgive."
It gave me the thread, full of intrigue and art, saying, "Pull so I may pull, both pull and do not sever."
From that tent of the soul, the image of my Turk appeared better; I reached out my hand to it, but it struck my hand away.
I said, "You have become sullen like so-and-so," it replied, "Know that I am sullen for your benefit, not out of malice and grudge."
Whoever enters claiming "It is I," I strike them down, for this is the sanctuary of love, not a stable for animals.
The welfare of heart and faith is the image of that certain Turk; close your eyes and see the image of the heart, the image of the heart.