No Jamshid’s memory, the wine that fioweth in this inn of mine, it is the pressing of my soul that sparkleth in my Persian bowl.

Man like a billow quivereth in eager quest of Being’s breath, while yet his arrow lies encased about annihilation’s waist.

Come, let us shatter (for we can) like Abraham this talisman; within the temple, idols be whatever I have seen, but thee.

Until thou deeply enterest the very heart in Being’s breast, to leave the gaze to speculate is wickedness, and sin most great.

To wander idly, without guide, peculiar pleasure is, beside; happy am I, that our abode is far, and ever winds the road.

The casual glance that gave to me the leave to wander, and to see, ‘Twas better far, that casual glance, than rapt attention to my chance.

Though I was nourished all my days where infidel to idol prays, behold, my opened lips impart the secret of the Kaaba’s heart.