The Steambath

The wondrous bathhouse keeper emerges from solitude, and the images in the bathhouse each bow in prostration.  
The frozen images, unaware and lifeless, have their eyes opened by the reflections of his gaze.  
Their ears become storytellers from his ear, and their eyes become capable of seeing from his eye.  
You see the bathhouse images, each one intoxicated and dancing, like a companion who occasionally comes with red wine.  
The courtyard of the bathhouse is filled with their shouts and cries, from the clamor and noise, the day of resurrection seems to come.  
The images call each other to their side, and an image from that corner comes smiling toward another.  
Yet the bathhouse keeper cannot perceive a form, even though the form comes from seeking in grandeur and splendor.  
All have become disordered, he is behind and before them, the unknown king of souls comes at the head of the army.  
The garden of every heart blooms with flowers from his face, and the hem of every poor man is filled with gold from his hand.  
Hold out a basket before him so it may be filled with his essence, so that the basket of your poverty becomes the envy of Sanjar.  
Both the judge and the claimant are freed from more and less when that moon appears intoxicated for a moment in the assembly.  
The wine of the cellar becomes alive, the dead become intoxicated, the wooden pulpit becomes animated when he ascends it.  
He reduces their chatter, the images become frozen, their eyes are lost, and their ears become deaf.  
But when he reveals himself again, eyes open, the garden becomes full of birds, and the orchard turns green.  
Turn to the rose garden and the orchard, see the friends and the tales, in pursuit of this expression, the soul comes to that interpreter.  
What has become apparent, how can it be spoken, my friend? The pen cannot write it, even though it comes to the inkwell.