Tho’ I am but a mote, the radiant sun is mine:
Within my bosom are a hundred dawns. 10
My dust is brighter than Jamshíd’s cup,[23]
It knows things that are yet unborn in the world.
My thought hunted down and slung from the saddle a deer
That has not yet leaped forth from the covert of non-existence.
Fair is my garden ere yet the leaves are green: 15
Full-blown roses are hidden in the skirt of my garment.
I struck dumb the musicians where they were gathered together,
I smote the heartstrings of all that heard me,