And of me say the fools:
I entered the lodges of women And never left.
And they call for my hanging,
Because about the matters of my beloved I, poetry, compose.
I never traded Like others In Hashish.
I never stole.
I never killed.
I, in broad day, have loved.
Have I sinned?
And of me say the fools:
With my poetry I violated the sky’s commands.
Said who Love is The honor-ravager of the sky?
The sky is my intimate.
It cries if I cry,
Laughs if I
And its stars Greatens their
If One day I fall in love.
What so If in the name of my beloved I chant,
And like a chestnut tree In every capital I, her, plant.
Fondness will remain my calling,
Like all prophets.
And infancy, innocence And purity.
I will write of my beloved’s
Till I melt her golden hair In the sky’s gold.
I am, And I hope I change not,
A child Scribbling on the stars’ walls The way he pleases,
Till the worth of love In my homeland Matches that of the air,
And to love dreamers I become A diction-ary,
And over their lips I
An A And a B.
