This house, where the sound of the lute is constant

Ask the master, what kind of house is this house?

What is this image of an idol, if this house is the Kaaba?

And what is this light of God, if this is a Magian temple?

There is a treasure in this house that does not fit in the universe

This house and this master are all actions and excuses

Do not lay your hand on the house, for this house is an enchantment

Do not tell the master that he is nightly intoxicated

The dust and straw of this house are all ambergris and musk

The sound in this house is all verses and songs

In short, whoever found a way into this house

Is the sultan of the earth and the Solomon of the age

O master, lower your head from this roof

For in your beautiful face there is a sign of good fortune

I swear by your soul that except for seeing your face

Even if it is the kingdom of the earth, it is magic and legend

The garden is bewildered, what leaves and what blossoms

The birds are enamored, what trap and what seed

This master is the sphere, like Venus and the moon

And this house is love, which is boundless and limitless

Like a mirror, the soul has taken your image in its heart

The heart has plunged into your tresses like a comb

In the presence of Joseph, when the women cut their hands

O soul, come to me, for the soul is in that midst

Everyone in the house is intoxicated, no one has any news

Of whoever enters, who is so-and-so

It is ominous to sit on the threshold, enter the house quickly

He darkens him whose place is the threshold

God's intoxicated ones, though they are a thousand, are one

The intoxicated of desire are all dual and triple

Go into the lions' thicket and do not think of wounds

For the thought of fear is a feminine form

For there is no wound there, it is all mercy and love

But then in your imagination it is like a mortal wound

Do not set fire in the thicket, and be silent, O heart

Draw in your tongue, for your tongue is a flame