Though you ornament the assembly, still you flower apart
In life’s assembly I am not permitted such comforts
In my garden I am the complete orchestra of longing
While your life is devoid of love’s passionate warmth
To pluck you from the branch is not my custom
I am not blinded by mere appearances
O, colorful rose this hand is not your tormentor
I am no callous flower picker!
I am no intern to analyze you with scientific eyes
Like a lover, I see you with nightingales’ eyes
Despite your innumerable tongues, you have chosen silence
What secrets, O Rose, lie concealed in your bosom?
Like me you’re a leaf from the garden of Ñër
Far from the garden I am, far from the garden we both are
You are content, but I am a scattered fragrance
Pierced by the sword of love in my quest
This turmoil within me might be a means of fulfillment
This torment, a source of illumination
My frailty might be the beginning of strength
My envy might mirror the cup of divination
My constant vigil is a world-illuminating candle
And teaches this steed, the human intellect, to gallop