My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has its inner light, even from a distance–

and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are;
a gesture waves us on, answering our own wave. . .
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

translated by Robert Bly

If life were easy
and it all worked out,
what would this sadness
be about.

If it was happy
day after day,
what would happen
anyway.

the candle flickers
the ice melting in the glass
nothing seems to help
like things did to stop the past
from playing havoc with sleep

On this dark night of love
Wildly the nightingale sings,
Has Leyla left Mejnun?
I thought the Wild voice sang of parting pain.

On this dark night of love
I felt my grief, remembered you,
Burned like the love-lorn nightingale’s sad refrain.

translated by Bernard Lewis

Slowly, slowly will you mount this staircase
–A heap of sun-tinged leaves upon your skirts–
And for a while gaze weeping at the sky. . .

The waters darken and your face grows pale,
Look at the scarlet air, for evening comes. . .

Bowed towards the earth, the roses,
Flame-like the nightingales bleed upon the boughs;
Has morning turned to bronze, do waters burn?

This is a secret tongue that fills the soul
Look at the scarlet air, for evening comes. . .

translated by Bernard Lewis

We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.

You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror, and here are the stones.

translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne

The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open.”

translated by Robert Bly

A freshness lives deep in me
which no one can take from me
not even I myself–

translated by Robert Bly

impress the young girls
raised on romantic movies
self-centered young men
bloated on their own egos
in borrowed fashion statements

they can talk the talk
in caressing vocal tones
intellect barren
originality lost
words as empty as they are