Rubaiyat

What does the heartbreak of love have to do with the easy pleasures of desire? Look how far apart they are: the bait over here, the trap over there. Soothing the fevered mind of love is something else entirely; your mad longing and a dab of almond oil are worlds apart.

In the valley of love, don't spread your wings, set down your foot; walk this stage of the road without taking a single step. People say: pick up your feet and leave. I say: plant your feet and come closer.

Though the Prophet's companions are all light and guidance, each one travels his own separate road toward the next world. But Ali, the honored king of men, is a road that runs straight all the way to God.

You who comfort a soul raised on sorrow, come. You who polish a heart covered in dust, come. You know nothing of the ache in these weary hearts. We are dying from your absence, you who feel no pain: come.

You who are the longing of my grief stricken heart, come; you who heal a soul worn down by weeping, come. You went off to a rival's gathering, so don't linger there. I might lose you altogether, so come back quickly.

Without a drop of your generosity, the whole sea is a mirage; without the light of your being, every flourishing place lies in ruin. All the world claims its existence only from you, the way a shadow claims it from the sun, a wave from the water.

The eternal Giver who set out the feast of existence fills the cup of speech with the aged wine of meaning. So that the bitterness of the wine would not sting the soul's palate, he sweetened its taste with the sugar of gratitude.

When fate, with delicate care, adorned the face of beauty, the robe of modesty was tailored to fit the stature of love. If these two guardians did not stand watch on left and right, what smoke would rise from these two flames!

Though the heart brims with the light of God, still, what is a single drop next to the sea? Anyone with eyes that truly see the truth knows this: if a mirror claims 'I am the original,' it lies.

Ramadan, what a soul-reviving month it is; the marks of subtle grace shine clearly through it. Why does everyone wear the pale color of recovery, if not because Ramadan drives away the most dangerous diseases?

We are the ones whose craft is living without pretense; our home stands at the crossroads of letting go. Cunning, the eye for beauty, drunkenness, and madness: the honor of a thousand callings rests on our shoulders.

Your pain is the price I pay for chasing comfort; loving you atones for all my pious failings. Your hair, the very summit of every confusion, measures out the longing of all the lost and troubled.

To someone with knowledge and learning, what matters is having the means ready; success is simply that the tools are at hand. Once the means are gathered, the rest of the work is up to you; for your journey, success is the moonlight that lights the way.

In the garden of love, joy is hard to find; its thorns and flowers are quenched only by thirsty lips. Sharing a single shirt with the flower bud, wilting and blooming both lie sleeping together.

Tonight your sorrow burned my soul and spirit, and the fever racking your body set my own life on fire. From that fever that tortured you last night, even the marrow in my bones, boneless as it was, burned within me.

Come, Fayyaz, for love has granted you entry, and saved you from the turmoil of the intellect. Come like a brave man, leave your very existence behind, for this mighty river has let you pass through it.

O flame, because of your cruel, tyrannical ways I burn alive, and you have no idea I exist. You asked why I circle you like a moth around a candle. I circle you because I would give my life for you.

Today, when seeing you is a holiday for me, the brand of your absence turns my chest into a garden of hope. The rosy color of your face comes from the blood of my heart; otherwise, paleness is the sun's natural lot.

The Generous One has given you the gift of love once more, and granted your work and affairs new success. As atonement for the vow of repentance you made in autumn, breaking that vow has now given you spring.

Whoever has glimpsed your qualities is forever changed; your grace brings a fresh promise with every passing moment. Our obedience will never measure up to your goodness, yet in your presence we hold a different kind of hope.

I am the one whose heart is ashamed of cheer; joy has grown strange to my nature and turns away from me. I came to nothing because my fortune raised me wrong; a palm tree grown in shade bears no fruit.

From the start the heart tied itself to attachment; then reason arrived, and that bond grew thin. For a lifetime we hung balanced on one foot; then love arrived and set this broken thing right.

Whoever clings more tightly to existence, if he can let go of himself, he reaches his true self. As long as something remains, letting go is the dervish's art; when nothing is left, anyone can be a dervish.

Fayyaz, where are you? I am feeling good; in love with her, my months are sweet, my years are sweet. In my suffering, even the dark night is lovely; in this fire, my burning wings feel just fine.

My sighing wore down the flame in my heart, and it died; from the dry thornbush of my being, only smoke remained. Like a dry thorn in the furnace of love, I caught fire fast, and just as fast burned out.