My invocations are sincere and true,
They form my ablutions and prayers due.
One glance of guide such joy and warmth can
On marge of stream can bloom the tulip plant.
One has no comrade on Love’s journey long
Save fervent zeal, and passion great and
O God, at gates of rich I do not bow,
You are my dwelling place and nesting
Your Love in my breast burns like Doomsday
The cry, He is God, on my lips is born.
Your Love, makes me God, fret with pain and
You are the only quest and aim of mine.
Without You town appears devoid of life,
When present, same town appears astir with
For wine of gnosis I request and ask,
To get some dregs I break the cup and glass.
The mystics’ gourds and commons’ pitchers
For liquor of your Grace and Bounty great.
Against Your godhead I have a genuine
For You the Spaceless, while for me restraint.
Both verse and wisdom indicate the way
Which longing face to face can not convey.
The mystic’s soul is like the morning breeze:
It freshens and renews life’s inner meaning;
An illumined soul can be a shepherd’s, who
Could hear the Voice of God at God’s
Not: This poem has been written in the Mosque of Cordoba.