The Colorful Rose

You are not familiar with the hardships of solving enigmas O Beautiful Rose! Perhaps you do not have sublime feelings in your heart.

Though you adorn the assembly yet do not participate in its struggles In life’s assembly I am not endowed with this comfort.

In this garden I am the complete orchestra of Longing And your life is devoid of the warmth of that Longing.

To pluck you from the branch is not my custom This sight is not different from the sight of the eye which can only see the appearances.

Ah! O colourful rose this hand is not one of a tormentor How can I explain to you that I am not a flower picker.

I am not concerned with intricacies of the philosophic eye Like a lover I see you through the nightingale’s eye.

In spite of innumerable tongues you have chosen silence What is the secret which is concealed in your bosom?

Like me you are also a leaf from the garden of Tur Far from the garden I am, far from the garden you are.

You are content but scattered like fragrance I am Wounded by the sword of love for search I am.

This perturbation of mine a means for fulfillment could be This torment a source of my intellectual illumination could be.

This very frailty of mine the means of strength could be This mirror of mine envy of the cup of Jam could be.

This constant search is a world-illuminating candle And teaches to the steed of human intellect its gait.