I saw a pious man captivated by the love of someone, having neither the strength to endure nor the power to speak. As much as he saw blame and suffered loss, he did not abandon his love and said:

I will not shorten my hand from your hem

Even if you strike me with your sharp sword.

After you, there is no refuge or shelter

I flee even from you, only to you.

Anyway, I blamed him and said: What happened to your precious intellect that the base self prevailed? He pondered for a moment and said:

Wherever the sultan of love arrives, there remains no

Place for the strength of the arm of piety.

How can a chaste, helpless person live

Having fallen up to his neck in the mire?