You blame and give advice, and recommend medicinal spells.
You make detailed analyses and loud public conclusions
about this company of lovers.
Do you really consider yourself a lover? A flat, clean, sandy spot gives wheat to the barn for nothing. No particle can grow to seedling from anything but the whole. You know this.
Why this continuous personal critique? Love’s fire puts a sad smile on. Advice rarely brings the coolness of peace.
The moon’s ashy light covers this world
as love waits quietly for a bird in the branches of some town, say Tabriz, to begin.