One lover is roaring.
He is eager to see a shining face.
Another is distressed,
keen to see her lustrous hair.
Another desires his lover’s breasts.
Describes them as ripe pomegranates,
Hails them improperly,
Praises apples of Isfahan.
One lover says: "My beloved is going away.
My liver''s blood became my wine.
From my cry the world became deaf.
Is this friend in the grinding mill?"
Mine is above all others'' loves.
He is dear, a husband to widows.
He knows everything,
whether the meaning or the expression.
The light of his candle doesn''t vanish.
He is the beloved, I''m the lover.
He is the ocean, Mazun the fish,
How wonderful, what an endless sea he is.
