I will be sad if You give me less grief.
If You pour sorrow and troubles over my head,
I will be embraced by the joy of troubles.
Your grief won’t let me grieve.
Your air won’t let me become wet soil and turn into mud.
Your sorrow holds the particles of this world together.
But, I want to be submerged in this sorrow all by myself.
The troubles You create become the remedy to my troubles.
You raise such a dust that it becomes salve to my eyes.
Show me a reason worth giving one’s life to.
Show a dress to a tailor so he will be amused.
The sickness You give prevents other diseases.
Your treasure saves me from poverty.
Your morning makes it impossible for me to light a candle.
Your clear being makes my evidence absurd.
The image which comes before me covers Your image.
If I shed its blood, it is permissible for me.
I burn the image of both worlds with Your Love.
Once I become Cigil’s* candle, both moths will be burned out.
Be silent. Say very little about your situation.
When I have so many appetizers,
why should I have to move from here to there?
*Cigil A city in Turkestan (Central Asia) famous for its beautiful women.
Divan-i Kebir Volume 15, Ghazal 85, verses 990-999, pages 195-196.