We present this work in honor of the poet’s 400th birthday.

 

We are desire hidden in the love-crazed call of the nightingale
We are blood hidden in the crimson heart of the unbloomed rose

We are pouring pearl-tears over the thinness of our lovesick bodies
We are hidden, like the divine strand that pierces the jewel’s heart

So what if we are famous for having no worldly fame?
We are hidden, like the heart, in the strange mystery of life’s riddle

The east wind is the only confidante for our every condition
We are always hidden in the disheveled twist of the beloved’s curl

Like the rose, the color of our essence is obviously bright
But we are hidden in the joy of the wine-cup’s subtle way

Sometimes we are like the reed pen that illuminates the plaints of love
Sometimes like the lament hidden in the pen as it writes

Oh Neşâtî, we are ever abandoning the visible presence of our selves
We are hidden in the absolute brilliance of the perfect mirror