If you don’t know me,
ask the dark night about me;
the night is the confidant of lovers
and the witness of the crying and wailing ones.
But, night and what happens at night is not the most important thing here.
Lovers show thousands of signs;
tears and pale faces are the least valuable among them.
Lovers resemble clouds only at the time of crying.
For endurance and patience, a lover is like a mountain.
A lover prostrates like water, rubs his face on the ground,
lies on the earth like top soil, stays underfoot.
But, all this suffering is a small thorn outside of a big garden.
There are roses, fountains, and the Beloved inside of the garden.
Once you pass over the wall and enter there,
you begin to speak, giving continuous thanks,
performing the ritual prostrations in prayers of thanks.
“Thanks to God,” you say.
“The sorrow and sadness of autumn has disappeared.
The Earth has become green and blossomed.
Spring has started acting like spring.
“Thousands of bare branches are adorned with roses.
Thorn bushes have been cleared of thorns.”
How do sober ones know the charm and beauty of the Beloved?
He is full of quills like a porcupine.
But, He knows neither fighting nor how to gallop a horse.
Lovers are your brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers.
They all become one, merge into one friend.
When thousands of bodies have fallen into the salt mine,
They all become salt.
Duality no longer stays with the body.
Who is from Mergoz? Who is from Buhara?*
Don’t slow down the horse of words by seeing tired idiots all around you.
When you start talking, look at the thirsty ones up in the sky.
See them.
*Cities in Central Asia.
Divan-i Kebir, Meter 7b, Gazel 240, Verses 3130-3140, Pages 239-240.