I heard that at the tune of a musician's song,

A fairy-like being joined in the dance along.

From the hearts of the disturbed around him,

A flame of candle caught in his garment's rim.

His mind scattered and his heart filled with wrath,

One of the lovers said, 'What harm could there be?'

The fire, O friend, has scorched your robe,

But for me, it has burned down a whole grain's hope.

If you seek aid, speak not of yourself,

For it is idolatry with both friend and self.

Thus I remember the advice of an old sage,

Who, mad with love, set his head to the wilderness' stage.

The father, in his separation, neither ate nor slept,

The son was scolded, and they said to him, 'Repent!'

From the moment my beloved called me his own,

I no longer knew anyone else, alone.

By his truth, until the truth of my beauty appeared,

Afterward, everything I saw seemed to be but a dream, unclear.

I could not be lost when I turned my face from the crowd,

For, in doing so, I found myself unbowed.

The scattered ones are under the sky's span,

Both beast and king may call them, but they are not one plan.

From the memory of kings, like a king of lost fame,

By night and day, they flee from people, a wild claim.

They have strong arms but short hands to grasp,

The wise are mad and alert, but drunk with the past.

At times, content, sewing robes in a quiet space,

At times, in a gathering, burning robes with a wild grace.

No desire for their own, nor care for others' fate,

No space for anyone else in their corner of divine state.

Their minds disarrayed, and wisdom scattered around,

Their ears filled with the advice of every fool’s sound.

The duck will never drown in the sea’s wide sweep,

The salamander knows not the fire’s burning heat.

The patient poor men with empty hands,

The desert travelers, follow the caravan’s commands.

The precious ones are hidden from the people's sight,

Not the ones adorned in belts, hidden in their cloaks so tight.

They care not for the approval of the world’s gaze,

For they seek the approval of truth, in righteous ways.

Full of fruits and shade, they thrive in their way,

Not like us, miserable and beaten astray.

They lower their heads in silence, like a pearl’s shell,

Not like the sea, that brings up foam to dwell.

People are not just bones and skin alone,

Not every shape contains a soul to be shown.

A king is not a buyer of every single slave,

Not every ragged one has life that can be saved.

If every drop of dew were to enter the market,

The market would be filled with treasures, shining like a gem’s spark.

The brave warrior does not tie his feet in place,

For the wooden leg moves firm, without a trace.

The companions of the solitude of the eternal house,

With one sip, they become drunk on the breath of the trumpet’s sound.

They do not grasp with swords of selfish intent,

For abstinence and love are like glass, not stone’s scent.