Oh Khusrau, the river of love runs in strange directions.
One who jumps into it drowns, and one who drowns, gets across.
The creaking of the chain of Majnun is the orchestra of the lovers,
To appreciate its music is quite beyond the ears of the wise.
If I cannot see her, at least I can think of her, and so be happy;
To light the beggar’s hut no candle is better than moonlight.
My heart is a wanderer in love, may it ever remain so.
My life’s been rendered miserable in love, may it grow more and more miserable.
People think they are alive because they have soul in them,
But I am alive because I have love in myself,
And I’m a martyr due to the beloved’s affliction,
(for, to a lover, nothing is dearer than
the affliction brought forth by the beloved) .
My beloved speaks Turkish, and Turkish I do not know;
How I wish if her tongue would have been in my mouth.
Old age and lovemaking do not go together;
But O Khusrau, you still remain a proof against this reasoning.
If there is a paradise on earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this
You look sleepless, in whose embrace did you pass the night;
Your intoxicated eye has still the signs of tipsiness.
The dust of your doorstep is just the right thing to apply,
If Surmah (kohl powder) does not show its beauty in the eye!
How can her eyes reflect any sympathy, with my night-long wakefulness?
For she herself knows of nothing, in the night, except sleeping.
I have become you, and you me, I am the body, you soul;
So that no one can say hereafter, that you are someone, and me someone else.