When my soul becomes a mirror to the secrets,
I can remain silent, yet cannot help but to know them.
I run from flesh.
I am frightened by soul.
Yet I swear, I don’t belong to either of them.
O one who wants to smell my fragrance,
you must die first.
Don’t look for me while you are still alive.
I am not as I appear to you.
I may look bent, but listen to my straight talk.
I look like a bow.
My talk is an arrow.
This head seems like a pumpkin.
This poor short cloak is my body.
Is there anyone in the bazaar of this Earth
who resembles me?
Do I resemble anyone else?
Even if I am a drop from Him,
with the power of God,
I harvest pearls from the sea with that drop.
When the cloud of my eyes grabs the pearls of this sea,
it will fly through the sky of loyalty.
Until flowers grow from my tongue,
I will not be able to take them to the door of God’s Shams.
Divan-i Kebir, Volume 20, Ghazal 46, verses 483-491, pages 94-95.