The red bloom is fire in it, the white has icy view.
It’s not strange – without you – spring is inferno,
Since paradise will – sans his face – turn to hades too.
As soon as his dream fantasies come into my sight,
Tears on my face line wrinkles with affliction, rue.
Delicious fruits are unsavory for a sick person,
It’s unsurprising if your sweet lip will – vile curses – boo.
Soul in nonentity is longing for hand-holding,
Cause it feels this body for it is boorish, askew.
Do not say Navoi is ungarmented, he wears
A robe of nonexistence, a misfortune-sewn tissue.
Having turned a ten-day moon into a smaller arrow
The sky became a herald in front of the king’s horse-blue.
Alisher Navoi* (1441 – 1501) Uzbekistan (born in Afghanistan)
Translated by Azam Abidov
Source: A'zam Obidov
* Also known as ʿAli-Shir Nava'i; Nizām-al-Din; ʿAli-Shir Herawī
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