Ghazals

You who have hearts, tell that playful, heart-stealing one to ask after the wounded lovers who have no voice. In the mirror of the beloved's face, the eternal light shines clear; in this beauty you can glimpse the face of the One you have always known. We are the bright-hearted of love, and the mirror of our heart makes the world-revealing cup melt with envy. There is no hope of brightness for our blackened days, not since I grew drunk on those dark, kohl-lined eyes. The bud of my heart bloomed like a branch of roses the moment I saw that joy-giving face again from afar. Anyone who has seen Layla's face unveiled would never blame the love-struck Majnun. With its lovely melodies, Eshraq sings in tune; yes, it is love of the garden that draws song from the nightingale.

Without you the moon and sun give no light, since you are the heart-warming candle whose flame leaves me scorched. I would not trade a single glance from your intoxicating eyes for both worlds; without you I count no breath of my life as truly lived. Night and day, like spring clouds, the shells of my two eyes scatter bright pearls without you. What do I want with narcissus and rose? Unlike the nightingale, I will not choose a single bloom from a thousand gardens of hyacinth without you. Your face and hair, my fairy-faced love, are such that the heart seeks nothing else; without you no rose can console me, no pure musk can soothe me. Come to the gathering with a face like the shining moon; without you my heart's blood has turned to wine in the cup. Like a caravan bell, my restless, grieving heart cries out in separation; see what turmoil this heart endures without you.

I saw it moving down a road with flirtation and grace: a sun that lights up the world, a moon that sets the horizons ablaze. I keep my eyes hopeful on my love, yet I am content with a single glance, and even that, only now and then. My darling, you could settle the affairs of the whole world if you would just cast one look from your half-drunk eyes. Your eyes, with the arrows of your lashes, have plundered my soul; you intoxicating beauty, what more do you want from me? The poetry of Ishraq has spread from India to Khorasan, just as the beauty of that face reaches from the heights to the depths.

Every shallow pleasure-seeker comes to the monastery door, but where is there anyone who drinks deep, a free spirit like me? My life has reached my lips; I only wish my beloved would arrive while I still have one breath left in me. How long must the bird of my heart beat its wings in the cage of my chest? Listen to its cry, the call rising from a prison. I sweep the tavern doorstep because at every moment a fresh young server comes through it. When the candle of your face blazes like the fire on Mount Sinai, a hundred men like Moses come hoping for a single spark. To become famous across the world without lifting a wing is the work of the phoenix; not just any common fly can do it. The dawn breeze has grown fragrant like the curls of the lovely ones, as if someone is coming from the beloved's side. Shake the world off your hands and look into this sea: the ship of the heavens will seem to your eyes like a worthless speck of straw. The caravan has already passed and we never reached the dawn; what good is it now that the sound of a bell still rings?

The One who gives lovers their sobbing tears is the same One who gave the rose-cheeked beauties their heart-opening smile on red lips. Watch the way the beloved's eyes move, watch the chaos of the age, as that kohl-darkened, narcissus eye turns to flirt and seduce. The wine cup is a mirror that reflects a whole world; look in the hands of the drinkers and you'll see the cup that shows the universe. From this caravan bell you hear the wailing of the heart; otherwise, where would a mere ringing chime carry such an effect? In the meadow of words there are many birds that sing, but I have never seen another nightingale so sweet-voiced as you.

What lit the gathering of eternity was nothing but the Beloved's face; love's radiance was not yet spilled into every street and marketplace. The valley of Sinai held no glow from the Beloved's face; Moses, longing to look, was not yet a seeker of that sight. The singular beauty of eternity wore no veil of illusion; for those who truly see, the task was not yet this hard. The sun of the Beloved's face had not yet lit the world; its reflection was not yet visible in the heart of every speck of dust. The parrot of every tongue had no taste for sweet speech; no idol with a mirror-bright face stood face to face. The turning glance of the lovely ones held no drunken flirtation; lovers had no word yet of that brimming ecstasy. The temple of the sheikh and the Brahmin, the shrine, the cloister, the synagogue, were not yet snares of fraud and hypocrisy; nor were the prayer beads and the pagan's belt. The pen of inspiration weighs out the pearls of hidden truths; in this world no one was yet entrusted with its secrets.

The one who tried to keep my heart from love and joy, I wish he had just looked once at the flower of your face. Anyone who saw your blooming face in the meadow, would never glance again at rose or red tulip. If my beloved lifted the veil from that lovely face, a single look would leave the whole world dazed and wild with love. I handed my mad heart to a beauty with an angel's face, just as Majnun gave his heart over to Layla. The frenzy of the lovesick rose from the chains of madness whenever my heart remembered the twist of that curling hair. For years Eshraq has scattered pearls from his lashes, his heart a temple of fire, his eyes a sea.

A disaster falling from the sky is easy to bear; what's hard is when it comes from the turning glance of beautiful idols. The ruby of your lips would melt like pure honey, if a single kiss could reach that lip, that mouth, that smile. The garden of paradise would breathe out perfume, if just one scent of your curls drifted into heaven's meadows. The arrow of my sigh pierces through all nine heavens, when the moment comes to leave this dusty world behind. We will spread our wings above the nine arches of the sky, when it is time to fly from this nest at last. Your bow-shaped eyebrow hunts down a thousand hearts with the arrows of your lashes, wherever love's shaft reaches.

My head is restless with longing for you, and the brand of desire for you is burned into my heart. Perhaps the water of life and the sweet spring are your ruby lips that scatter sugar. Reveal yourself on the mountain of my chest, for since the first day it has been your home. The lovely gazelle in the eyes of all beauties wanders entirely across your plain. In this bright, heart warming garden the rose is the flower of your beautiful face. No cypress grows in the gardens of paradise as graceful and well shaped as your stature. We are ruined by the cup of love until judgment day; Lord, what wine is in your goblet? The glance of your drunken eyes robbed my heart; my reason is busy with your plunder. Eshragh, your creator's craftsman, wishes to gaze upon you forever.

How sweet were the days when I tied my heart to the beloved's curling hair, like a Brahmin binding the sacred thread, I tied myself to an idol's locks. My mind became the sun that lit up the whole gathering of the world, the moment I set the image of her face in the mirror of my heart. From the tip of every lash a sea of blood would rise and surge, when, like tears, I gathered drops at my eyelashes from these blood-weeping eyes. My heart trembles like a slaughtered bird and cries like a nightingale; I do not know why I ever tied it, rose-cheeked one, to the coil of your hair. If I had not one day fallen into the cage without wing or feather, I would, like the nightingale, have built my nest among the thorns on the rose branch. When that garden-adorning bunch of roses was gone, with a hundred regrets I wove thorns from my lashes across the gaps in the rose bed. My tongue would scatter pearls in describing the beauty of that cheek, if only I could hold back this radiant, jewel-spilling speech.

My love, what difference is there to us between the mosque and the temple? For loving a beautiful face is what leads us to paradise. Sometimes I am the wine drinking rogue, sometimes the old wine seller. What can I do? All of this is simply my fate. When the hand of power shaped the clay of humankind with such artistry, I am left wondering what the cupbearer mixed into my own making. Your face and curls, beauty, are flower and hyacinth enough; we have no need of meadows or open fields. I am not searching for the scent of paradise, nor chasing the beauty of heaven's maidens; just show me your radiant face and keep your paradise.

Her beautiful face makes the sun and moon jealous; the light of the stars is just a reflection from the mirror of her face. Look at the faces of the world's tulip-cheeked beauties and admit it: the flowering cheeks of these lovely ones adorn the whole garden. My Canaan-born moon has shown her face in Egypt; like Zuleikha, everyone everywhere is lost in gazing at her. I want no narcissus, no rosebud, for from my beloved's eyes and lips I already have both the rosebud and the dark, languid narcissus. Seek out the gathering of the wine-drinking free spirits, for there you'll find the laughter of the wine-cup and the weeping of the flask. If the rose's cheek and the garden cypress aren't before my eyes, there is the lovely face of my darling and her tall, graceful form. Nightingales of the garden, sing no more, for Eshragh is himself one love-crazed nightingale.

From beneath a fine veil she shows her face, a delicate beauty in soft linen; a robber of hearts and minds, she carries off both soul and heart as plunder. Playful and drunk, a cup of wine in hand; her intoxicated, bloodthirsty eyes drink the blood of those who love her. A graceful cypress in stature, a lovely moon of a face; a world adorning sun, with a dawn glowing behind her ear. Her hair and curls are musky, locks that scatter the scent of ambergris; her sweetly smiling ruby lips are a wondrous fountain of honey. Her drunken eyes are highway robbers, her glance brings down its prey; a master hunter, with the snare of her hair slung over her shoulder. A silver tablet of a breast, a face flushed with color; playful, drunk, a sweetheart who drains the cup. A face like the radiant sun, the color of the shining moon; like a halo I have opened my arms wide in longing for her. Since the cupbearer of eternity has given you such a cup of light, from that wine you will stay drunk to the end of time.

The water of your cheek puts gardens to shame for color and freshness; beside your charming ruby lips, how could a rosebud's mouth ever seem so small and sweet? You are a European born, a lovely portrait with a face of flame; what spark are you, that fire breaks out even in Europe? Your blood-spilling lashes plunder a whole world when your highway-robber eyes set out to make war on lovers. I would reach the houris, the palaces, and the garden of paradise itself, if one day I could grasp the hem of that beautiful idol in our struggle. Words cannot capture the praise of your sweetly smiling ruby lips; yes, the mouths of the rose-cheeked beauties of the world are simply too tiny to hold it. Instead of wine, he drinks his own heart's blood, the one whose head is filled with longing to see those two half-tinted ruby lips. Her lashes set Eshraq's heart ablaze with their arrows; in piercing the heart, where could any willow-wood arrow match her lashes?

Because of one beautiful, tender face, my friends, I have neither heart nor faith left. If a painter tried to draw my beloved, the famous galleries of China would burn with envy. It seems the whole world is scattering perfume: a breeze is blowing in from some sweet land. I have no need for wine; I am already drunk from the hand of a rose-cheeked, moon-browed beauty. Better than the gardens of paradise and its dark-eyed maidens is a clear, lovely garden and a tender beloved. I packed up and left your street, yet still I cast one last, longing look behind me. You are that beautiful, shining moon whose harvest the sun itself comes to glean. If the hem of her robe ever falls into my hand, Ashraq, I will shake out my sleeve over both worlds in joy.