Suddenly, I fell from that palace and pavilion into the depths of such a well, unfed and untraveled.
The world was not my celebration; I saw its ugliness, like rouge applied to the face of that pale harlot.
What can rouge adorn on that bad thornbush, that thorn embedded in every liver and kidney?
With the crown of a flower, the hair is let down, the eyebrow darkened with kohl by that blind black one.
Do not look at her anklet; see her black leg. Night play may be pleasant, but only behind the curtain.
Wash your hands of her, O purified Sufi; make your heart a bed away from her, O man of the polished head.
Unfortunate and heavy-hearted is he who seeks fortune from her, trapped in greatness, burning like a fragment.
Help us, O beloved, from the heavy-hearted ones, you who brought us into the heavens from nonexistence.
Be silent, speak from that endless sweet breath. How long will you create words from this counted breath?