A hand of dust is all I own;
I scatter it upon the way,
Because I hope that on a day
It shall ascend to heaven’s throne.

What strategem have I, what art?
For on the branch of wisdom’s tree
No thorn has ever sprung for me
That I might thrust into my heart.

The fires of separation give
A brief effulgence to my flame,
And when I would damp down the same,
That very breath I no more live.

Let it not vanish from my vein,
The wine and drunkenness of love;
I suffer none triumph of
My heart, to take it back again.

Upon the tablets thou didst write
The argument entire and whole;
And now, so discipline my soul
That I may read the script aright.

If in thy presence one ghazel
I ever made be sung to thee,
What would it cost, the courtesy
To whisper, ‘Yes, I know him well’?