Ars Poetica

Since the sparks of my sigh ascend toward the heavens, swirling and turning,

the very heart of the lamp of the sky is set alight, burning, turning.

Does one who hangs from the gallows of your curl ever place his feet on earth?

In rapture and delight he gives his life, spinning, turning.

“The Damascus-black of your curl has ruined the Egypt of my heart,” the pigeon said as it delivered the heart's message to you, circling, turning.

Rise, dance, whirl! And before you I bow my head and yield. Let your twisting black curls embrace your silver breast, turning.

If your door were not the Kaaba itself, sun and moon would not circle it day and night like faithful pilgrims, revolving, turning.

For you, the mirrors hang in every place, gazing at each passer-by with hope as they are turning.

O Nejatî, at this loyal gathering it befits the minstrel to dance and chant these fresh-made verses, turning and turning.