Oh, beat the drum of loyalty, for the time has come; give wine like the color of pomegranate, for your pomegranate has blossomed.
We press the juice from the sweet grapes of your garden; we scatter the fruits from your young tree.
Do not drive away the soul and intellect from the table of your grace; what does a fly eat or reduce from your table?
The greed of all the greedy is to seek barley from your harvest; two small worlds are within your world.
All day, if the sun strikes with the light of its sword, it becomes less than a particle from the threat of your spear.
When the soul of the sky kisses the ground for you, how can the earth fly to your sky?
The broken-winged one sits and looks towards you, for only your gift reaches his place.
Neither night nor dawn has passed in the world without my breath being inflamed by the breath of your guardian.
You have neither promised me nor sworn that your ladder will reach at the time of ascent.
When you look at the servant with those narcissus eyes, his soul flies from place to your placelessness.
You console him, saying, "O sorrowful one, do not grieve anymore," for the sky roared from your cries and lamentations.
I am more compassionate than a mother and father in nurturing, for your test has arrived for your maturity.
I will make a garden and paradise and a remedy for your pain; I will make your sky better than this from your smoke.
We have said everything, but not the essence, my beloved, for it is better that your secret be heard from your mouth.