Neither tongue nor ear, nor intellect and sight, nor awareness nor unconsciousness, nor thought.
Neither need nor beauty for coquetry, you are like an onion, swollen and layered.
Neither a path cut by him nor a foot for the road, neither the fever of that harlot nor burning and sighing.
The story of a dervish who, from that house, would say whatever he wanted was not there.
A beggar came to a house, asking for dry bread or wet bread.
Whatever he requested, whether bread or bran, he was teased and mocked.
The beggar left, pulling up his skirt, intending to defecate in that house.
He said, "Hey, hey, let me relieve myself in this ruin."
Since there is no reason to live here, one must weep over such a house.
If you are not a falcon to catch prey, trained to hunt for the king.
You are not a peacock with a hundred designs, whose appearance brightens eyes.
Nor are you a parrot, given sugar, whose sweet words are listened to.
Nor are you a nightingale, lamenting lovingly in the garden or tulip field.
Nor are you a hoopoe to deliver messages, nor like a stork to make a home above.
What are you doing, and for what purpose are you bought? What kind of bird are you, and with what are you fed?
Rise above this shop with the merchants, to the shop of virtue that God has purchased.
A commodity that no creature looked upon, that generous one bought it from its ugliness.
No counterfeit is rejected by him, for his intention in buying is not profit.