Come, for the love-mad nightingale is busy singing songs. The tulip-bride is all bewitchery and grace.

O connoisseur of music, melody comes forth from strings invisible, not from the singer’s throat, nor from the frets of lute or harp.

Whoever strikes the strings of life’s lute with a plectrum is, take it from me, a man who knows the mysteries.

I have been given knowledge of what is behind veils in the world; but dare not open my mouth, for the heavens are so perverse.

Do not speak harshly, try the way of amity. That you and I are here together is a pure godsend.

What is the destination of this dark abode of dust? Whatever there is in it is like shifting sand.

My body is a flower from a flower-bed in Kashmir’s paradise. My heart is from the sanctum of Hijaz. My song is from Shiraz.