Whoever receives the gift of the dervish state
Whoever receives the gift of the dervish state
Is cleansed, rid of counterfeit, gets his silver-plate.
He’s that tree whose breath oozes musk and ambergris,
From whose branches, city and country get their fruit.
Those who are suffering find their cure in its leaves;
In its shadow so many good deeds are afoot.
A lake is born of the teardrops of the lover;
Reeds and bushes sprout and blossom at that tree’s feet.
Poets are the nightingales in the Friend’s garden;
Yunus Emre is the singing partridge in it.