When the heart is certain that you are the soul of souls, open the door of grace, for you are the pillar of a hundred worlds.
When separation becomes rebellious, you strike its neck with joy, avenging your lovers, for you are the sword of time.
When union becomes thin, you nurture it with a goblet, for everything before you is a free sun.
Finally, your sun reaches the zenith of happiness, rejuvenating the old world with your youthful radiance.
What dances are in the soul, what flowing vessels, reaching the ear from those drums, lutes, and songs.
How full is this garden with the breath of nightingales, that from the clamor of your intoxicated ones, you cannot distinguish wine from the cup.
All the branches are blooming, the kings holding goblets, everyone lost in celestial wine.
Send my soul's greetings to those kings, but you will find no one conscious enough to deliver your greetings.
Even the gnat has drunk wine, making its head and beard foolish, rendering Nimrod nonexistent with a dagger.
If this is what it brings to a gnat, tell me what it gives to an elephant; how can I explain the wine of the placeless cup?
From the wine of the soul, the dog of the cave becomes a lion-catcher, for around the cave of the intoxicated, it does nothing but shepherding.
If such a dog becomes selfless, see what a fierce lion gains from the nectar of that vessel.
Tabriz became the east with the rise of the religious sun, from which the stars of meanings receive their brilliance.