After Old Rags Longing Hath the Figure Tall

After old rags longing hath the figure tall and slight of Love?
Fresh and fresh renews itself aye the brocade fire-bright of Love.

'Gainst the flames from thorns and thistles ne'er a curtain can be wove,
Nor 'neath honour's veil can hide the public shame, the blight of Love.

Through a needle's eye it sometimes vieweth far-off Hindustân —
Blind anon in its own country is the piercing sight of Love.

It will turn it to a ruin where nought save the owl may dwell,
In a home should chance be set the erring foot of plight of Love.

Will a single spark a hundred thousand homes consume at times:
One to me are both the highest and the lowest site of Love.

Never saw I one who knoweth — O most ignorant am I!
Yet doth each one vainly deem himself a learnèd wight in Love.

Rent and shattered — laid in ruins — all my caution's fortress vast
Have my evil Fate, my heart's black grain, the rage, the blight of Love.

In its hell alike it tortures Musulmân and infidel,
'Izzet, is there chance of freedom from its pangs, this plight of Love?

Of reality hath made aware the seeker after Truth,
Showing lessons metaphoric, He, the Teacher bright, St. Love!