My love in its abandon has a live flame in its arms. My sterile wisdom cannot raise a single spark.

Love’s meekness, when complete, is one with Beauty’s pride. So in my desert Qais is given Layla’s name.

From India have I come with an urge to prostrate myself on your threshold – an urge which has turned to blood in my brow.

Put into this old unbeliever’s hand the sword of la, and then see how the tumult of my Illa rages in the world.

There ought to be a revolution for the heavens to bring again out of time’s womb my yesterdays in my tomorrow’s guise.

The whole world benefits from Your abounding grace, but You do not grant my Sinai any theophany at all.

In veiled terms do I say to God, but to you, Prophet of God, openly, that He is all that is concealed from me, and you all that is manifest.