It’s not wind that smells of musk, it’s Leila who unbound hair,
Not red tulips on the mount, it’s Mejnun’s blood in despair.
On one side – me, on the other – my beloved in lilac’s mirror,
We reflected our visage, that’s not at all a rose-briar.
It’s my afflicted souls’ bird, not the enchanted nightingale
Who – the flower in the garden – to my sweetheart would compare.
When the wind blew over the hyacinth, I called to mind my sweet’s braid,
I became insensible; indeed it’s not from love affair.
Before the jonquil’s golden cup my spirit is like fine curtain
Which is taken as a hostage, it’s not the wine straining tool ware.
Don’t say no joy in my distress like in nightingale’s sad singing,
If its wail does not bring gladness, my wound too is not a nightmare.
In my heart orchard I fancied over the cypress the flower,
In truth, to tell the flower’s finer than my belle would be unfair.
Hey, good-lookers in the parkland, don’t be proud of your beauty,
Of the last year’s flowers like you, where are they, no one’s aware.
The beauty passed a bowl to me and the rose to the nightingale,
Who is as drunk as me, Navoi, but not like me up in the air.
(Translated by A’zam Obid)