One who is eager for love,
the beloved’s manifestation is in his soul.
In his existence there is the sign,
in his bones, marrow, and blood.
Is the beloved a houri or a human?
Venus, the sun, or the moon?
My beloved, in short,
is neither from the earth, nor from the sky.
Day by day my beloved’s beauty becomes more elegant.
Moment by moment I become more saddened.
My beloved is closer to me than myself,
Yet, I don’t know where my beloved is.
One who has reason and knowledge,
becomes intimate with someone of his kind.
I, helpless and Majnun-like,
have become accustomed to the desert.
One lover is roaring.
He is eager to see a shining face.
Another is distressed,
keen to see her lustrous hair.
Another desires his lover’s breasts.
Describes them as ripe pomegranates,
Hails them improperly,
Praises apples of Isfahan.
One lover says: “My beloved is going away.
My liver’s blood became my wine.
From my cry the world became deaf.
Is this friend in the grinding mill?”
Mine is above all others’ loves.
He is dear, a husband to widows.
He knows everything,
whether the meaning or the expression.
The light of his candle doesn’t vanish.
He is the beloved, I’m the lover.
He is the ocean, Mazun the fish,
How wonderful, what an endless sea he is.