In the coquetry and fierceness of the self there is no pride, there are no airs.
Even if there are airs, then they are not without the pleasure of submission.
The eye of love is in search of the living heart;
hunting for carrion does not befit up to the royal hawk.
In my song there is no charming and romantic grace,
for the blast of the trumpet of Israfil is not meant to please the heart.
I will not ask for wine from the Frank, saki,
for this is not the way of the pure‐hearted profligates.
The rule of love has never been widespread in the world.
The reason is this—that love is no time‐server.
One continual anxiety—whether absent or present!
If I tell it myself, my story is not long.
If you desire then read the 'Persian Psalms'* in seclusion;
The midnight lament is not bereft of secrets.