Arise and waken notes aslumber in the organ’s keys. Teach singing birds fresh tunes.

The path is like a tulip-bed with passers-bys’ blood-drops. Who is the one whose proud might has waylaid the caravan of humble Love?

Since You have opened to the garden its sleepy eye, give the narcissus time sufficient for a glance.

To inmates of the inner sanctuary say this from me, tongueless as I am: ‘Words never uttered by you are on little children’s lips.’

O you who lengthen out your prayers in front of other men, when you bow your head on the ground, the unbelievers watching fume indignantly.

Although the intellect rates Love not very high, I would not give a lover’s anguished sigh for Jamshid’s throne.

A Brahmin said to Ghaznavi: ‘Look at my magic powers; you who broke idols have become yourself Ayaz’s slave.’