Such is in my destiny, then of my fate, what shall I say?
Though the charmers are somewhat softened in heart,
Of fortune’s crooked, wayward course, what shall I say?
I do not complain of the sable locks of the beloved;
But her eyes are blood-shedders: of the slaughtered, what shall I say?
I greatly longed to behold that sweet countenance of hers;
But it killeth the heart: of such a face, what shall I say?
They, who show no tenderness, are rivals unto themselves:
Thy beloved should be thy beloved: of a rival, what shall I say?
The morning’s breeze, that causeth the rose to smile,
Is the zephyr itself; then of the morn, what shall I say?
The thorn which may be with the rose, is also the rose:
Since it belongeth to the rose, of the thorn, what shall I say?
The harsh words of the dear ones, tho’ a load, are still acceptable:
Since lovers are under a load of obligations, of the load, what shall I say?
If the rose be the heart’s bower, it is the lamp of the nightingale’s heart:
Since it is the lamp of his heart, of the lamp, what shall I say?
The despoiled crieth out, and distracteth others’ hearts too:
He remembereth the departed loved one: of the despoiled, what shall I say?
O Aḥmad Shāh! tho’ it be a stake, it is a bed of flowers also:
Since the stake of the beloved is a bower, of the stake, what shall I say?