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The Rose

I dreamt I came to a magnificent city
     whose palace was the rose, rose.
The crown and throne of the great sultan,
     his garden and chambers
          were the rose, rose.

Here they buy and sell but roses
     and the roses are the scales they use,
Weighing roses with more roses,
     the marketplace and bazaar
          are all roses, rose.

The white rose and the red rose
     grew coupled in one garden.
Their faces turn as one toward the thorn.
     Both thorn and blossom
          are the rose, rose.

Soil is the rose and stone is the rose,
     withered is the rose, fresh is the rose.
Within the Lord’s private gardens
     both slender cypress and old maple
          are the rose, rose.

The rose is turning the waterwheel
     and gets ground between the stones.
The wheel turns round as the water flows.
     Its power and its stillness
          are the rose, rose.

From the rose a tent appears
     filled with an offering of everything.
Its gatekeepers are the holy prophets.
     The bread and the wine they pour
          are the rose, rose.

Oh Ummi Sinan, heed the mystery
     of the sorrow of nightingale and rose.
Every cry of the forlorn nightingale
          is for the rose, the rose.

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