There is a pain called love’s agony that no physician can heal,
If the lover laments in sorrow, it is no surprise, no ordeal.

The wise know well that love’s madness makes the afflicted blind,
No advice from the prudent nor lessons of the learned can bind.

Whoever has not tasted love’s wine or endured its bitter strife,
They’ve truly gained nothing from this fleeting life.

Of musk, amber, and all the world’s finest perfumes,
None surpasses the scent of the beloved’s blooms.

If prey escapes the hunter’s snare, it may seem strange,
Yet to die within love’s snare—this needs no change.

If my beloved knows the torment I endure,
Then fear of rival’s cruelty or enmity, I can endure.

Even my enemy wept upon hearing my tale,
For kindness is rare in the close, and distance prevails.

The rose laughs, unaware of the nightingale’s plight,
So consumed in its bloom, it knows nothing of love’s night.

Saadi, where can you take complaint against the beloved’s hand?
Patience with the beloved must suffice, for apart, patience cannot stand.