Ghazal-06

For once, O awaited Reality, reveal Thyself in a form material, For a thousand prostrations are quivering eagerly in my submissive brow.

Know the pleasure of tumult: thou art a tune consort with the ear! What is that melody worth, which hides itself in the silent chords of the harp.

My dark misdeeds found no refuge in the wide world— The only refuge they found was in Thy beginning forgiveness.

Even as I laid down my head in prostration a cry arose from the ground: Thy heart is enamoured of the idol, what shalt thou gain by prayer?