Wine from the hands of the beloved flows like Salsabil,
Even if it’s the blood of wine-drinkers spilling at will.

I do not know the secret sweetness of the date,
I only see it ripening on the lofty tree's estate.

Her allure is not from henna that graces her hand,
Nor her intoxication from kohl, as some understand.

Her bewitching fingertips, so soft yet fierce,
Are not dipped in henna but in the blood of those she pierces.

O caravan leader, move the litter swiftly,
For my feet are bound, yearning for the journey briskly.

Each night of longing for Layla’s face,
Is as endless to Majnun as an eternal space.

Her lasso pulls the eager heart relentlessly,
The miles of the desert do not matter endlessly.

Like an ant, crawling and stumbling, one must tread,
Even if the path lies under the feet of an elephant’s dread.

Where the beloved waves her hand in favor’s grace,
The lover who does not bow his head is miserly in that place.

If devotion comes from us, we are ashamed,
And if beauty from them falters, it is still perfectly framed.

Friends and companions may find replacements to wield,
But the beloved we cherish has no equal, no field.

Speak no words of love but true ones, O Saadi,
For love’s discourse transcends idle talk and folly.