Driven onward by high thoughts, my pen
Cast abroad the secret of this veil, 170
That the drop may become co-equal with the sea
And the grain of sand grow into a Sahara.
Poetising is not the aim of this masnaví,
Beauty-worshipping and love-making is not its aim.
I am of India: Persian is not my native tongue; 175
I am like the crescent moon: my cup is not full.
Do not seek from me charm of style in exposition,
Do not seek from me Khánsár and Isfahan.[31]