That is not merely hair and earlobe; it is day and night entwined.
And that is not the stature of a cypress but the trunk of a date palm refined.
Not a mouth that words can capture in imagination's sweep,
Unless one speaks of lips and knows the mystery they keep.
The fire of your face has ignited such a blaze in all,
It is no wonder things burn; the marvel is if they don't fall.
No human resists becoming a lover in spring's embrace,
And any plant unmoved by Nowruz is mere firewood in place.
Your cypress-like sway seems stirred by the morning breeze,
But truly, it's joy at the songs of birds among the trees.
Not everyone feels for you the yearning I bear,
You are the sun, while short-sighted is the owl of despair.
I long to spend my life in pursuit of your grace,
Though my path falls short of the seeker’s pace.
Every fate has a cause; in my beloved’s absence,
It is death that calls me, and this separation its essence.
I dare not speak of my sorrow to strangers who'd scoff,
For complaining of a friend to foes is most unkind and off.
Yet how can such a state remain veiled from view?
You tear armor asunder, and Saadi’s curtains are gossamer, too.