01

Tumultuous Love where’er it rove Unto Thy street is brought; What boasteth he who findeth Thee That for himself he sought?

02

The ardent longing in our hearts— Where does it come from? Ours is the tumbler, but the wine within— Where does it come from?

I know that this world is mere dust, And that we, too, are a handful of dust. But this pain of quest that runs through our being— Where does it come from?

Our glances reach the neckline of the Galaxy; This obsession of ours, this tumult and clamor— Where does it come from?

03

O bring me back the singing, The airs of long ago; Bring back the sweet, sad music To set cold hearts aglow.

Too hushed is mosque and temple, Too silent church and shrine; Stir up a thousand tumults With that dark glance of Thine.

Fill me the fiery goblet That made my dust to flame: Youth thirsts anew, desirous, And youth shall quaff the same.

The pipe that sets a dancing The heart within the breast, The wine that moves the spirit And melts and soul oppressed—

Soft amid Persia’s rushes The breeze of morning sings: Bring me the spark that trickles From those melodious strings.

04

Thou who didst make more ardent My sighing and my tears, O let my anthem quicken Dust of a thousand years.

What wilt Thou of my heart, then, Who with the wine of life Excitest in the goblet This passion and this strife?

And when my breath caressing Shall softly, sweetly blow, The withered heart will blossom, The tulip newly glow.

My fantasy is soaring Beyond the stars and sun; Why lurkest Thou in hiding, When hunting’s to be done?

O Master, guard the honour Of him who begs of thee; He’ll let no wine of others Within his goblet be.

05

From my handful of dust You draw out a hundred laments; You are nearer than the soul—for all Your shy reserve.

Hiding in the gentle breeze, thief‐like You enter the garden; You mix with the flower’s perfume, and blend with the bud.

The West is indifferent to You, the East is all legends; It is time you etched a new design in the world.

He who is heady with the ambition of worldconquest— Soothe his craze with the lancet of Genghis.

An unreined bondsman, I might slip away again— Suppose You hung these curly tresses around my neck!

Lament is all I know, but they say I am a singer of ghazal; What is this dew like thing You are pouring on my heart?