19 Ghazal 870: dil raft u arzuyat az dil namishavad 

My heart left me, but longing 

for you won’t leave my heart.

My heart broke apart, but pain 

for you won’t diminish. 

The moon at night 

rises opposite your face, 

but the day will never come 

when the moon can oppose it. 

My face is pallid gold, and I grind it 

with the dust at your door, 

but to bond with you 

is unattainable alchemy. 

At your hands, my tears are a sash 

hung over heaven’s shoulders, 

but my hands cannot hang 

draped around your neck. 

I sit in sorrow: 

though my soul departs, 

my heart cannot 

rise up and leave. 

My heart is a sad way station, 

but no caravan can reach it bringing 

patience or escape from the brigands of absence. 

Khusrau fell into the whirling abyss 

of longing. The ship of his desire 

will not make shore.

(from In The Bazaar Of Love: Selected Poetry Of Amir Khusrau, translated by Paul Losensky & Sunil Sharma)

29 Ghazal 1151: gar na man divana gashtam z-in dil-i bad-nam-i khvish 

Why would I entrust my message 

to birds and breezes if my infamous 

heart had not driven me insane? 

When evening falls, my heart catches 

fire in solitude. I light a fine candle 

each night in my Canaan. I awake 

with a start. How long will I chain 

the feet of my restless soul with dreaming 

fancies of your coiling curls? 

Since my fate is not to love you, 

I keep patient by writing your name 

in heart’s blood next to mine. 

A swarm of pestilent winds blow 

towards you from mortals’ sighs. 

Hide your face! 

Mercy on your rose-coloured cheek! 

Who is Khusrau that you tire your lips 

to torment him? Please, don’t squander 

your insults like this just anywhere.

(from In The Bazaar Of Love: Selected Poetry Of Amir Khusrau, translated by Paul Losensky & Sunil Sharma)

9 Ghazal 286: bidar shaw dila ki jahan ja-yi khvab vast 

Wake up, my heart! This world’s no place to sleep. 

Among these ruins, it’s not proper to sit 

safe and secure. 

Why ask the drowsy sleepers what it’s like, 

that sweet sleep for which there is no answer? 

In the grave, no friend feigns faithfulness. 

Only in the ruins beneath the dust 

can the weary dwell content. 

Since the drunk do not know time’s tyrannies, 

nothing’s better for the sober than wine 

and a simple meal. 

It’s wrong to ask life’s savour from heaven, 

a piddling cup that holds no proper hope. 

Saqi, send round to Khusrau a drop 

from the goblet of love, 

for there is no headier wine than that.

(from In The Bazaar Of Love: Selected Poetry Of Amir Khusrau, translated by Paul Losensky & Sunil Sharma)