Your love is not superficial to be cast out of my heart

Your affection is not temporary to settle elsewhere

Your love is within me, and your affection in my heart

It came with my milk and will depart with my soul

The pain of love is such that in its remedy

The more you try, the worse it becomes

Now I am the one in this city every night

Whose cries rise to the pinnacle of the heavens

Even if I shed my tears into Zayandeh Rud

The fields of Iraq will be watered in a single day

One day, my tears won't suffice for my sorrow

Unless my eye is aided by the blood of my liver

Your response is bitter, but what does it matter to me?

With your hand, it passes and turns to sugar on your lips

Praise be to God that my heart is not your hair

To be disheveled by every passing breeze

One cannot distinguish the hair of your waist from the hair of your locks

When your waist encircles you like a ring

If the memory of your lips reaches the pen's tongue

It turns to honey, and the pen becomes sugarcane

The rose would be musk-scented if it carried your hair's fragrance

If for one night it accompanies the morning breeze

Yesterday, within your locks, I saw the face of the beloved

In a form that the moon's circumference became its knot

I said, shall I begin with a kiss? She said, no

Wait until the moon exits Scorpio

I asked, how many ways shall I explain before you?

If your heart inclines to virtue and art

She said, what is this habit of yours, from morning till night

That your idle chatter gives me a headache

You bring virtue and art as gifts to the beloved

But what kind of man behaves like a fool this way?

Gold is what turns your deeds into gold, but

This too depends on your fortune, if it ever happens

The state of this servant's poverty is such

That even the ruler of the world will hear of it

O soul of the world, the generous one, Mir-e-Izz-e-Din

Whose servitude makes even the heavens significant