This was a sign that the kingdom and glory you seek will be granted by God.
The one for whom you weep during long nights and burn at dawn in need.
The one without whom your day turns dark, and your neck becomes thin like a spindle.
And what you give in charity, all that you possess, like the pure-hearted who give their garments.
You gave your garments, sleep, and color of your face, sacrificed your head, and became like a hair.
How many times you sat in the fire like aloeswood, how many times you went before the sword like yourself.
From such helplessness, a hundred thousand, the nature of lovers is beyond count.
When you had this dream at night, it became day, and from its hope, your day became victorious.
You turned your eyes left and right, wondering where that sign and those symbols are.
You tremble like a leaf, fearing that the day might pass and the sign not appear.
You run in the streets, markets, and houses like someone who has lost a calf.
The master asks, "What is this running, what have you lost here?"
You say, "It is well, but my well-being is something no one else should know."
If I tell, my sign will be lost, and when the sign is lost, the time of death arrives.
You look at the face of every rider, and they tell you not to look at them like a madman.
You say, "I have lost a companion, and I have come to search for him."
May your fortune be enduring, O rider, have mercy on lovers, and excuse them.
When you seek earnestly, insight comes, earnestness does not err, such is the news.
Suddenly, a fortunate rider came and embraced you tightly.
You became unconscious and fell to the ground, unaware, saying, "This is hypocrisy and deceit."
What does he see in him, what is this turmoil? He does not know what the sign of union is.
This sign is for him who has seen it; how can another perceive the sign?
Every time a sign came from him, a soul would reach another soul.
Water came to the helpless fish; these signs are the verses of the book.
Thus, the signs that are in the prophets are for that soul which is familiar.
This speech remains incomplete and restless; I have no heart, excuse my heartlessness.
Who can count the particles, especially one whose love has taken away his reason?
I count the leaves of the garden, I count the cries of the partridge and the crow.
They cannot be counted, yet I count them for the growth of the examiner.