Until you clasp your hands around the beloved’s waist,
You will not taste the kiss you long for on the beloved’s lips.

Do you know what the life of one slain by the sword of love is?
It is tasting an apple from the orchard of the beloved’s face.

The tale of Khosrow and Shirin fades into obscurity,
Before the passion that lies between me and the beloved.

The enemy that no infidel’s arrow could slay in battle,
Was felled instead by the bow-like brow of the beloved.

My heart has gone, my eyes weep blood, and my frail life lingers still,
Only so I may sacrifice my life at the beloved’s feet.

One day I will fall at the feet of the beloved’s steed,
If their pride and coquetry do not pull the reins away.

Alas, my wish will likely never come to pass in this quest;
Yet it is enough for me if my name is spoken by the beloved.

Since death is inevitable, in whatever form it may take,
It is sweetest to die on the path of love, at the beloved’s threshold.

I carry this yearning with me even to the grave,
And from the dust I shall rise to seek the beloved’s sign.

The cries of all people are from the enemy's hand,
But Saadi's cry is from the unkind heart of a friend.