English
Number 7
For forty mornings, from the dawn of creation, with its own hand it planted;
no seed of any rose was seen until it was sown in our clay.
What moon was this that came down from the sky
and settled sweetly, at home, in the tower of our dwelling?
What angel was it that fell into the pit of Babylon?
What spells lie at the bottom of our Babylonian well?
What waves keep arriving, moment after moment,
from the surge and stirring of his sea onto our shore?
The heart takes on a thousand forms in a single instant;
see how ready to receive every shape our willing heart is.
With each knot he loosens from his hair,
a hundred of our difficulties come undone.
If you long to be accepted at our court,
come, become the servant of his dark locks, for that is our path to fortune.
Like Maghrebi, fix your gaze on the very essence of all being,
if you seek perfection from the one who is perfect among us.