Why is there always music in this house?
Ask the owner.
Idols inside the House?
Beloved's light in a pagan temple?
Here is a treasure this world could not contain.
The house and its landlord
are all pretext and play.
Hands off this house, this talisman.
Don't argue with the landlord;
he's drunk every night.
The dirt and garbage are musk and rose.
The roof and door are music and verse.
In short, whoever finds this house,
is ruler of the world, Solomon of his time.
Look down, Lord, from the roof;
bless us with your glance.
I swear, since seeing Your face,
the whole world is a fraud and fantasy.
The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf
or blossom. The distracted birds
can't distinguish the birdseed from the snare.
A house of love with no limits,
a presence more beautiful than venus or the moon,
a beauty whose image fills the mirror of the heart.
Zulaikha's female friends,
beside themselves in Joseph's presence, sliced their wrists.
Maybe a curl of his hair brushed their hearts.
Come in. The Beloved is here. We are all drunk.
No one notices who enters or leaves.
Don't sit outside the door in the dark, wondering.
Those drunk with Him,
even if they are a thousand, live as One.
But drunk with lust, even one is double.
Enter the thicket of lions unafraid of any wounds.
The shadows you fear are just a child's fantasy.
There is no wound and nothing to be wounded;
all is mercy and love.
But you build up thought
like a massive wooden door.
Set fire to the wood.
Silence the noise of the heart.
Hold your harmful tongue.