The Colorful Rose

You are not familiar with the hardships of solving enigmas

O Beautiful Rose! Perhaps you do not have sublime feelings in your heart

Though you adorn the assembly yet do not participate in its struggles

In life’s assembly I am not endowed with this comfort

In this garden I am the complete orchestra of Longing

And your life is devoid of the warmth of that Longing

To pluck you from the branch is not my custom

This sight is not different from the sight of the

eye which can only see the appearances

Ah! O colourful rose this hand is not one of a tormentor

How can I explain to you that I am not a flower picker

I am not concerned with intricacies of the philosophic eye

Like a lover I see you through the nightingale’s eye

In spite of innumerable tongues you have chosen silence

What is the secret which is concealed in your bosom?

Like me you are also a leaf from the garden of Tur

Far from the garden I am, far from the garden you are

You are content but scattered like fragrance I am

Wounded by the sword of love for search I am

This perturbation of mine a means for fulfillment could be

This torment a source of my intellectual illumination could be

This very frailty of mine the means of strength could be

This mirror of mine envy of the cup of Jam could be

This constant search is a world‐illuminating candle

And teaches to the steed of human intellect its gait