That essence of wakefulness once again put me to sleep, taking away the opium of turmoil from my head.
With a hundred tricks, I make myself unaware and ignorant of him, and that perfect moon comes with such a goblet in his hand.
He tells me, "Won't you say how long you'll wander like a beggar, begging at every door like every destitute and unfortunate one?"
In this misery and deception, a slave to the cloak and jug, if you are true and genuine, why are you in this sack?
From these things that are born of you, kings are ashamed; you were a king, why should you be mocked by the devil?
Who can speak his words, for the world is not his mate; the world is blind and existence is deaf to his manifest and hidden self.
If I had the tongue to reveal the secret of the beloved, every soul that heard it would escape from this passage.
From that beloved with a brave heart, I am in a very difficult state, as my chest is ruined by that wandering and splendor.
If I speak to the believers, they all become infidels at that moment, and if I speak to the infidels, no infidel remains in the world.
Last night, his vision came to me in a dream, seeking grace, and asked me, "How are you?" I said, "Without you, very distressed."
If we had a hundred lives, they would be shed from your sorrow, my friend; is your heart stone, flint, or a mountain of marble?