top of page





- - ^ / - ^ - ^ / ^ - - -
muzāriʿ akhrab makhfūf sālim

Oh, you! Whether pitiable or praise-worthy,
Both people weep in secret pitifully.
What goes, goes. What comes, comes.
What was, was. What are tears but profligacy?
Would you have the world gracefully glide?
It's the world; how could it move smoothly?
He's drunk who doesn’t know he drinks.
He mourns who doesn’t know he weeps tearfully.
Go and mourn until Armageddon!
Shall we forever weep for those departed dearly?

No matter our uncertainty, predict tears from this sphere
If you at all occasions weep mournfully.
Say, rather, fate is set above you,
Above all you set your heart upon: heavenly.
It’s not the clouds, not an eclipse,
Yet it takes the sun and casts the world darkly.

You can command or even fail to speak. I fear.
Don’t declare victory for yourself, audaciously.
She rises fixed high above,
In all her honor, glory and magnanimity.


- ^ - - / ^ - ^ - / ^ ^ -
khafīf sālim makhbūn

No matter how long or short a life may be,
Everyone must die eventually.
Even a rope laid ever so long,
Must coil itself eternally.
If you wish, live in unhappy hardship,
But if you want security, blessings and prosperity:
Then you’ll take little of this world below,
Take yourself from Ray, to Teraz flee!
This being and coming is your sleep.
Sleep has no dominion in reality.
This very day and death are one:
Can you not tell the one from the other separately?



- ^ - -/ - ^ - - / - ^ -
ramal maḥdhūf

The scent of the Muliyan rises,
The memory of gentle friends rises,
The sand of the Oxus runs its course,
My horse, riding through its flood, rises,
Oh Bokhara, be happy and live long,
May your lord live as long; your guest, he rises!
Your lord is the moon and Bokhara the sky:
The moon always in
the sky rises!
Your lord is the cypress and Bokhara the garden:
The cypress always in the garden rises.





^ - ^ - / ^ ^ - - / ^ - ^ - / ^^ -
mujtaṣs makhbūn maḥdhūf

A dark night, your hair resembles,
A clear day, your bright cheek resembles,
Should a jeweler shine an agate
To watery luster, it, your lip, resembles.
I’ve spent a thousand nights in the garden of angels,
Their blooming flowers your breast resembles,
Two doe’s eyes and the blowing narcissus,
Each exactly your eye resembles,
I’ve seen a bow of Babylon, an arrow of Tir,
That, when drawn, your brow resembles,
I couldn’t even to a cypress compare your stature,
For the cypress, your stature resembles.



- - ^ / ^ - - ^ / ^ - - ^ / ^ - -
Hazaj  makhfūf maḥdhūf

Climbing and kindling, there the qibla of Zoroaster!
Sit and throw an ermine shawl about your shoulder:
All who worship fire must there return for warmth.
Those priests of Zoroaster return even to holy fire;
I never find cold, even wandering far from your temple,
The fire returns me while my heart and eye circumambulate you in a gyre.
If I put my hand unto your heart, your heart’s burning
Turns to charcoal what was once my finger.
Your face is a garden and all the garden violets;
Oh to grab a handful and to hold your hair!
Whoever kills me, kills me but births you.
Whoever births you, births you but kills me




Kindling! Climbing! Oh, altar of Zoroaster!
Sit before it: Throw the ermine belly about your shoulder.
Many who worship here return for fading warmth,
Forced again to Ahura Mazda’s altar.
But not I. I never find the cold for never do I depart the fire.
The fire temple has become my heart, my eye, like a winepress.
If I put my finger to the heart, from the burning heart
The fingers will undoubtedly become charcoal in my hand
Oh your face is like a garden and all the garden is violets
I wish to pluck the violets from your tresses by the fistful
He who sews you, sews you and reaps me
He who reaps you, reaps you and sews me.

bottom of page