Come to our garden. Watch the spring there.
Come close to the Beloved
and see what kind of Beauty He is.
If you can’t reach the falcon, run after its shadow.
Watch the hunting in this secret hunting place.
Come to the shore.
Watch the mountain-high waves
and try to catch the pearls deserving of Sultans.
If you have to be hunted,
be the prey of the Sultan’s leather strap.
If you are willing to become naked,
lose your shirt in this gambling.
Pull yourself limping, stumbling from your body,
to the Land of Soul.
Then, enjoy orange blossoms, sweet basils and roses.
O harp players of heaven,
hit the strings to make our Venus dance.
You will receive silver and garments as gifts.
This divine wine deserves the discomfort of a hangover.
Explain this fair deal to this restless heart.
Yells and screams are coming from the wine jar:
“I am burned from the heat of this wine.
O glass, come close to me. I will fill you with wine.”
It is a gift to cry after the love story of Shirin and Husrev.
At least, give your heart and soul
to the One who gives life to the soul.
One day, I stopped at Love’s store.
My heart gave up that store, gave up the whole business.
I am far from the situation where I could get help from others.
You are the One who can find the remedy.
I gave my heart and soul to the wind.
You watch over me.
It is enough. I remain silent.
The Sultan will tell the rest.
Come, O Player of meaning. At least, come with a poem.
Divan-i Kebir, Volume 22, ghazal 40, verses 372-384, pagers 90-92.