I tried to describe the situation of my heart as I knew it.
The tears and blood of my heart had become rough,
but I couldn’t explain it.
It was the other day,
I was talking about my heart, saying a few words
which were really just odds and ends.
The glass of thought narrowed.
Then, I broke it as if it were a small bottle.
Even big ships are being wrecked piece by piece in this flood.
What is the value of my small boat?
In fact, I am handless and footless.
This boat was wrecked and scattered by waves.
I grabbed onto a piece of wood.
I passed out of myself.
Now, neither beauty nor ugliness remains.
I am in neither the heights nor the depths.
But, these words are not quite right,
because sometimes I ascend high with this wave,
while at other times, I end up on the bottom.
Do I exist or not? I don’t know.
All I know is that if I exist, I am absent,
and If I am absent, I exist.
I have no doubt about rebirth.
Like perception, I have died, weeping and crying,
a hundred times on the day of judgement.
And again like perception, I have come back to life.
My lungs have been turned into blood by the hunter of the valley.
Since He began hunting me, I have become so happy.
I have been saved since I became His game.
Reflection is like the forest where there are hundreds of wolves.
But, why should I let this worry me?
I am drunk thanks to the One who gives reflection to man.
At first, when I was cut off, I fell down.
Wherever I set a trap, I was caught in that trap.
They all laugh at one’s imagination.
Who wants to buy a piece of straw,
especially if the seller
proudly curls his mustache in the bargain?
What did you do in the end, O Idiot?
You planted a rose bush in the stoke-hole.
You planted it, but nothing grew in your rose garden,
not even a leaf.
But, I have been wounded by the thorns.
I have reached the age of sixty,
and I am still on the hook of the letters of the alphabet.
I have to get out of this body, like that rose.
Divan-i Kebir, Volume 15, Ghazal 70, verses 805-817, pages 159-161.