When a hundred lights appear out of mirror of your cheek,
In front of this shine the sun will turn into a speck, so weak.
We will liven up while we enjoy the wind of your existence,
Even the breath of Jesus thus can’t be healing for the sick.
From the outset to the end your space might not be replenished,
It has neither starting point, nor termination, it’s mystique.
When you shed light on a candle and could enlighten a flower,
The moth inflamed, the nightingale despairingly started to shriek.
Your enchantment was reflected truly in Shirin and Leila,
Farhod died, Mejnun became mournful, deplorable and meek.
Your love and beauty, as you wanted, ‘re demonstrated in your names,
From this, the essence became feeble, the lighting of pain glossed the peak.
Those who wish to reach you need to get through the steppe of self,
Since to gain eternity one ought – nonentity – to seek.
It is not necessary to tell you all my needs and wants,
As you are aware always what from the people’s heart will leak.
Pour the rain of beneficence in the garden of Navoi,
For bloom and nightingale – no leaf, no tune – sans your grace unique.
