THE MYSTERIES OF SOUL
O friend! The tavern elder is arriving,
Carrying a sprouted flower he is arriving.
It is not a flower but the bud of the garden of prosperity,
That from the soul of the friend to the aware heart is arriving.
That pleasant face and that fragrant tress,
Having passed by the tent at the encampment is arriving.
Arisen from the land of reality and the tent of figurity,
Arisen, at the favourite sanctum is arriving.
That song of the everlasting paradise’s angel,
To the ear of the intoxicated soul is sometimes arriving.
The inner sigh of the lover intoxicated with wine,
To the elder is inspired with a sigh.
Leave me alone, for the cry of this beggar,
Coming the deep heart, to the king's ears reaches.
Within the heart of the indigent lasted a month,
The dervish's cry up to the moon's heart is arriving,
Under the arched eyebrows of the beloved there is a magic,
That the mysteries of that heart to the hide is arriving.