Latafat be-kasafat jalwa paida kar nahin sakti

Subtlety, without some substance, cannot make its grace appear; The garden is the tarnish on the mirror of the vernal air.

The shore's proud stance cannot contest the river's surging might; Where the Cupbearer serves, what use is the pretense of clear sight?

The rose's blood in blossom is the very cause of tears; And lightning's frenzy is a blade for the vein of the weeping spheres.

To solve my deepest troubles, I have fallen in despair; A vow of dust and ashes is now knotted to the burden of my care.

With head bowed low, my mind becomes a hall where I await; My gaze now has the task of counting stars upon the blisters of my fate.

Asad, drink deep submission to the turning of the sky; For the wisely drunk, complaint is but the shame of a sober cry.