O lovers, O lovers, whoever sees his face, his mind becomes bewildered, his nature becomes disturbed.
He seeks the beloved, his shop becomes ruined, he runs on his face and head like water in his stream.
In love, he becomes like Majnun, bewildered like the heavens, whoever becomes so afflicted, his remedy is unattainable.
The soul of the angel bows to the one who becomes dust for the truth, the heavens become a servant to the one who becomes his servant.
His love places the heart full of pain on the palm, smelling it, how can that heart not be happy which has become his fragrant hand.
He has wounded many hearts, closed many dreams, the hands of sorcerers are tied by his magical glance.
All kings are his beggars, beauties collect his scraps, lions lay their tails on the ground before the dogs of his street.
Look once at the sky, at the fortress of the spiritual ones, so many lamps and torches on his tower and rampart.
The keeper of the fortress is the universal intellect, that king without drum and cymbal, whoever ascends the fortress has no self left.
O moon, you have seen his face, you have stolen beauty from him, O night, you have seen his hair, no, no, not a single strand of it.
This night is dressed in black because it bears the mark of mourning, like a widow in black clothes, her husband gone to dust.
The night acts and plots, it secretly rejoices, it does not close its eyes, it sets its eyebrow crookedly.
O my night, I do not believe this lamentation from you, as you run like his ball before the mallet of fate.
Whoever is struck by this mallet, wins the ball of fortune, running without feet and head like the heart around his street.
O our face like saffron from the love of his tulip garden, O heart sunk in the head like a comb in his hair.
Love itself is a back, from head to toe it is his face, this back and face, this side is nothing but his face.
He is free from form, all his work is artistry, O heart, you do not pass beyond form because you are not one of his sides.
Every pure heart knows the voice of the heart from the voice of the flower, this is the roaring of a lion in the form of his deer.
The weaving of the hand of the One is evident, evident from the craft of a weaver and from his loom and shuttle.
O our soul, his shuttle, and our qibla, his street, the sky is the sweeper of this street and the earth its housekeeper.
My heart burns with jealousy of him, my eyes have become his musk, when will the sea be wet from his tearful eyes to his knee.
This love became my guest, struck a wound on my soul, a hundred mercies and a hundred praises on his hand and arm.
I threw my hands and feet, ceased my search, O dead one, my search is before his search.
How many times I said, O heart, be silent from this madness of the heart, my cry has no benefit, as the heart hears his call.